


Spirit's Night

by TaraethysHolmes



Category: Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi | Spirited Away, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dragon Sherlock, M/M, Spirited Away - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 09:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13878006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraethysHolmes/pseuds/TaraethysHolmes
Summary: "On the other side of the arch at the end of the tunnel was a great area of green. John guessed that it must just be a second entrance into a park somewhere or something, because the green seemed to stretch out for miles and miles. Thickets of trees were dotted here and there, and there weren’t any paths that he could see.The entire place was bathed in weak light, as the sun was setting on the horizon to the west. Far off, he could hear the sound of a train passing by, the rattle and whistle of wheels across the track echoing over the great plain of green."John Watson returned from Afghanistan lost, with nowhere to turn but the barrel of a gun. Sequestered from time, down a tiny alley with cobbled streets and ancient lamps, through the black gates, John Watson finds a reason to keep going.WIP Spirited Away Fusion.





	1. Chapter 1

The smell of the pub was absolutely overwhelming, as John Watson stared over the rim of his pint glass at his inebriated sister. The entire place smelt like warm beer, and just a general sweet smell that cloyed in John’s nose and made him want to retch. 

‘So… Johnny…’ slurred Harry, raising her empty shot glass in the air in an unspoken command for more vodka. ‘Whatcha been up to?’ 

‘Maybe you’ve had enough, Harry,’ said John, hesitantly, waving at the barkeep to ignore her request. 

Harry looked at him, her dark brows coming down over her glazed, blue eyes. ‘Always so judgemental, Johnny boy,’ she said, ‘yet you’re the one who decided to swan off and get shot.’ 

John bit his lip in annoyance, scrubbing a hand through his messy blond hair. ‘I did that so we could have some money, after Dad passed and all the money was gone to debts.’ 

‘Yeah, yeah,’ slurred Harry. ‘Saint John, aren’t you so — so happy to be of _service._ ’ Her words were mocking, and it set John’s nerves and teeth on edge. 

Tossing back the last of the pint in his hand, John slammed the glass down on the table, and stood up. ‘Come on, Harry, let’s get you home.’ 

‘Don’ wanna go home, Johnny boy,’ she muttered, raising a shaking hand to where a pretty young black haired woman was sitting on the other end of the bar, nursing a small glass with some brightly coloured cocktail swirling around inside. ‘Pretty girl over there was givin’ me the eye.’ 

‘No,’ said John, grabbing Harry’s arm and tugging her over towards the exit, ‘she wasn’t.’ 

‘How do you know she wasn’t?’ 

‘Because she’s here with her boyfriend, see?’ John pointed, as a younger, buff man with arms the size of tree trunks walked over to the woman, flexed an arm and then pressed a kiss to her cheek. The woman giggled, happily, and took another swig from her glass. 

Harry let out a huge of annoyance. ‘Straight chicks. All the same.’ 

‘Deal with it, Harry,’ John replied, grabbing his cane from here he had leant it up against the bar. He began to limp out, his other hand in a vice grip around Harry’s wrist. She was twisting and fighting, and it was jerking his bad shoulder. John hissed in pain, but forced himself to just deal with it. He couldn’t afford to let Harry go. 

Stumbling, John haltingly tugged Harry down the street towards the main road, where he could see cabs passing by. Drunken revellers nearby hooted and shouted, a group of young men who were clearly out on some sort of stag do. John ignored them in favour of tramping towards their destination doggedly. 

‘Why are you dragging me?!’ protested Harry. ‘I can get home on my own, Johnny!’ 

‘No,’ said John, ‘you clearly can’t!’

‘Ooh, you’re such a good boy, Johnny,’ hissed Harry, mockingly, ‘always doing what Mum and Dad said. Well did they tell you that they kicked me out after I started dating Clara? Did they tell you that they hate queers? No? Oh, and I bet you didn’t tell them about that Major of yours, did ya?’ 

‘Shut up, Harry,’ said John, narrowing his eyes to see in the darkness. His cane clicked against pavement next to me, accompanying his every step with a staccato rhythm. He focused on that, instead of thinking about the hurtful words that were spewing from Harry’s mouth. It was easier this way. 

‘Dad called me a fucking lesbo, when he kicked me out, did he tell you that? Did Dad tell you that he threw my stuff out on the pavement and that I had to go and beg a place to stay from Clara?’ John could feel the hot tears pricking behind his eyes. 

_Get it together, Watson,_ he reprimanded himself, in James’ voice. _You are a soldier, a doctor, an army captain. Get it together._

But that moment of distraction was enough, and Harry twisted free from his hand, and began to run away, listing to the side as she sprinted towards a dark alley. 

‘HARRY!’ bellowed John, after her, following her down the dark alley as much as he could. As far as he could see, there weren’t any other ways to turn, so maybe if he just kept this up, Harry would get tired and just stop running. He continued to call out to her, ambling as quickly as he could down the alley. The place stunk, reeked of old vomit, and homeless people. Dog shit littered the ground, and discarded boxes and bags of rubbish lay everywhere. John darted his eyes about, the darkness suddenly encroaching on him. 

He felt, suddenly, like there were a dozen eyes peering out of the darkness at him. 

He could hear Harry up ahead, her steps slower now, her feet dragging drunkenly over the stone. 

The alley walls were getting narrower and narrower, and they looked older, too. The street that they had come off was by no means new, but these stones looked almost like they had been laid down in the Victorian era. John fancied that this was almost like taking a snapshot of history, where he could see the spots atop which the new city had been stacked over the old. Above him, rickety old balconies were dark and looked almost as if they were about to fall down into the alley. The purple light of sunset could be seen just above the walls, and John realised that it wasn’t that late at all. 

Up ahead, Harry let out a thump, and John hurried after her, his cane clicking quickly over the cobblestone. 

As he continued down the alley, the old became even older, the cobblestone turning into ancient looking flagstones that caught the end of his cane, making him almost trip up, He looked up to see old looking dresses hanging over the wooden balconies, and torches on the walls that seemed like they came straight out of an Indiana Jones, or Shakespeare movie. 

Three doors, one on the left and two on the right, stood up ahead in the alley, and John couldn’t see much past there, as the alley wound around the corner, bending at an odd angle. The door on the left had a window next to it, that was completely dark, but the wooden door next to it was embellished with another flaming torch. The door was set under an arch of dark coloured brick. 

The other two doors were more rickety, square and set over large, stone slabs. None had lights behind them, and everything was shut up and dark. 

Stepping over to the door set under the arch, John reached out and was about to knock when another thump came from up ahead. 

‘HARRY!’ he called out, into the darkness, stepping away from the door and limping as quickly as he could towards the sound. Around the corner of the alley, John could see that there was a dead end coming up, with a great wall rearing high into the sky, matching the height of the buildings either side of the alley. A balcony sat just over a large arch in greying stone, a huge cast iron gate standing open. Even when he squinted, John couldn’t make out anything but darkness beyond the gate. Above the balcony, a window jutted out into the alley, with a glowing, orange light coming from behind it. John squinted at the window, attempting to see inside, but nothing could be seen — the window was too foggy. 

He spotted Harry, leaning against the iron gates. She was panting, and leaning to one side heavily.

‘Harry,’ John began to reprimand, ‘don’t do that!’ 

Harry looked up, and saw him, and her eyes went wide. She turned, and darted through the gates into the darkness beyond the arch. 

‘HARRY!’ John bellowed, once more, after his wayward sister, but it was no use. She had jogged off into the darkness. 

Cursing her foolishness, John halted in front of the gates, and looked back out at the alley. 

Suddenly, a sharp and sweet smelling breeze blew through the alley, down through the dark passage past the iron gates. It seemed like it was curling around him, beckoning him inside and prompting him to enter the dark alley. 

The alley was still lit up, slightly, with the orangey blue light that signalled sunset. It wasn’t that late, and this alley didn’t look like it was very attractive to homeless people. He couldn’t hear the road anymore, he realised, with a start. 

The breeze blew again, and John got another strong sniff. It smelt like spices, and sand. Gun oil, and the desert. 

It smelt like Afghanistan, John realised, blinking. 

Again, the breeze curled around him, seemingly tugging him in towards the darkness beyond the gate. 

This time, John let it reel him in, turning his back on the alley and passing through the gate. 

He entered a dark tunnel, with no light whatsoever aside from a small point that he could see in the distance. The breeze accompanied him like an old friend, filling his nose and lungs with the familiar scent of Helmand. It brings back memories of times around a camp, eating mealy bread with his teammates. It reminds him of blood pumping through his veins, and the _pop pop pop_ of the gunfire. 

The tunnel continues on, and John can make out the dark figure of Harry, stumbling through the passage in front of him. 

‘HARRY!’ he calls out, the sound echoing around them. She looks behind her, and continues down the passage. ‘Stop! Where are you going?’ 

‘I can smell food!’ she called back, excited, ‘I’m hungry!’ 

‘Harry come back!’ John yells, exhausted now, his leg aching uncomfortably. ‘There isn’t going to be any food down here!’ 

‘I can smell it!’ insisted Harry, just as she passed beyond the arch at the end of the tunnel. 

She stopped, then, and John frowned, picking up the pace to exit alongside her. What he saw astounded him. 

On the other side of the arch at the end of the tunnel was a great area of green. John guessed that it must just be a second entrance into a park somewhere or something, because the green seemed to stretch out for miles and miles. Thickets of trees were dotted here and there, and there weren’t any paths that he could see. 

The entire place was bathed in weak light, as the sun was setting on the horizon to the west. Far off, he could hear the sound of a train passing by, the rattle and whistle of wheels across the track echoing over the great plain of green. 

‘This way!’ insisted Harry, beginning to walk up towards the large hill John could see a little ways ahead of them. ‘I can smell it.’ 

‘I really don’t think that there’s going to be any food out here, Harry,’ replied John, but humoured his sister, following her up the hill. It was a bit of a struggle, with his cane, but he continued on anyway. The breeze that had curled around him in the tunnel was gone, now. It had flown away with a final billow of gun oil, and John already missed its presence. Now, all he could smell was the bland scent of flowers, and none of the food that Harry could smell. 

Up ahead, his sister had already reached the peak of the hill, and was beginning to start down the other side. John caught up with her, his cane slipping a little as he reached the top of the hill. Pausing there, he felt another breeze ruffle his ash blond hair, as he looked down towards where a village sat. It was a small thing, with crookedly tall buildings. It looked like an expanded version of the alley they had just been through — old style buildings from what seemed like before the Great Fire, whitewall covered by wooden scaffolding, rectangular windows with delicate, old, cloudy glass in them and rickety old balconies overhanging the cobbled streets. 

John almost felt like he had been transported back in time. 

Between them and the town, there was a riverbed — large boulders set into the earth. On the other side, a set of long, stone steps led up into a cobbled path into the town.

‘Hurry up, Johnny,’ insisted Harry, making her way down between the boulders to climb up the steps. In an odd show of kindness, she paused at the top of the steps, wavering slightly because of the alcohol, before leaning against a small signpost that was hammered into the dirt beside the cobbled path. 

With a sigh, John leaned over and attempted to fumble his way across the riverbed. His cane caught on every second rock, and with a thump, he took a fall into the stones. 

‘Fuck,’ he swore, the cane trembling in his grasp as he fought to right himself. His hand came up wet, and with a start, he realised that water was flowing gently between the stones. 

He rubbed away the damp on the oatmeal coloured jumper that he wore, and struggled back up to his feet, pausing a moment to catch his breath before continuing on. The light was beginning to dim now, but, as he looked at the horizon, he knew that they had another half an hour to go before it was truly dark. 

Continuing on, John stepped up behind his sister, following her into the town. On a close look, John saw that the windows were completely dark, and that there was no one walking about. 

‘Where do you think all the people are?’ asked Harry, voicing his own question. 

‘I don’t know,’ replied John, ‘I suppose this might be an abandoned theme park, or some sort of Government project about history. It might even be an abandoned film set, I suppose.’ 

Harry took in a great breath through her nose, reaching out a hand and hitting John on the arm. ‘Don’t you smell that?’ she asked, ‘I can smell food really strongly now.’ 

John tried again, taking another deep breath in through his nose, and realised that she was right. The smell of something frying, and of roasting meats and vegetables, as well as the cloying scent of baking sweets drifted through the town. 

‘You’re right, I can smell it,’ he told her, raising an eyebrow. 

Listening hard, he also realised he could hear the crackling sound of something being put into oil. 

Harry grinned, and set off into the town. John followed behind her, reluctantly. ‘I really don’t think we should be here.’ 

‘Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud!’ she exclaimed. John sighed, but followed her anyway. ‘It’ll be fine. These are all restaurants, it looks like.’ 

‘Maybe this was some sort of theme park, then,’ said John. ‘Though it’s a bit weird, in the middle of London.’ 

‘Yeah, s’pose,’ said Harry, distracted. She seemed almost like a bloodhound, solely following what she could detect with her nose.

Turning around a corner, her ashy blonde ponytail flicking out behind her, she staggered against a door. It opened under her weight, allowing her entrance into a brightly lit dining hall. 

Reluctantly, John followed after her, letting the door slam shut behind himself. The room that he entered had a low, wooden ceiling. Long dining tables and low benches crossed the room, lit up by candles along the centre, and wall sconces with brightly shining fires in each. Each table was heaving under the weight of plates and platters and dishes filled with food. There were whole pigs, and great bowls of fruit, and tureens of soup galore. Meats glistened in the light, and vegetables let off steam on great platters. 

John gaped, incredulous. 

It looked like a scene out of medieval times, perhaps from the court of Henry VIII. And, it smelt amazing. John was almost tempted himself until he realised that the room was entirely bare of people aside from Harry and himself. 

Harry was already sitting down at the table, pulling a plate towards her and loading it up with all of the delicious looking food. 

‘Harry,’ John said, cautioning, ‘I really don’t think we should be eating this food. There’s no one here.’ 

‘So?’ slurred Harry, already having found pitchers of beer, and chugging it down like her life depended on it. Taking a final gulp, she let out a belch, then turned on the bench to look at him, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ve got cards and cash. When they come back, I’ll pay them. I’m sure they’ve just stepped out for a moment.’ 

‘What if this is someone’s house?’ John shot back. 

Harry just shrugged, tearing off a mouthful of food before replying. ‘I’m sure it’s not. Too much food for just one family.’ 

‘You don’t know that!’ replied John. 

‘Oh, stop being such a stick in the mud!’ Harry insisted, taking another bite. ‘It’s really tasty, you should try some. It can’t hurt.’ 

‘Come on, Harry, you’re going to get in trouble. If we leave now, we should be able to make it back before it gets dark.’ 

‘Stop it, John,’ Harry said, her mouth full of food, spraying it out across the rest of her plate. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ 

John let out an impatient huff, and stepped back, turning and opening the door behind himself to step back out into the street.

Looking up, he realised that he couldn’t see the sun to judge how much time he had left until it was really dark, so he walked back out into the main street, his cane clicking over the cobblestones. 

Still, the sun was blocked from view, so he walked a little farther away, trying t find a spot from which he could see the sun. 

The town was now much dimmer than it had been, and John realised that it must be drawing closer and closer to sunset. 

He had no idea where in London they were. The town that they were in didn’t look familiar whatsoever, and there was a distinct lack of signs around, pointing to any familiar landmarks. There wasn’t even a tube station nearby, and there was always a tube stop near in London. 

He got the sudden sense that he didn’t quite feel like he was in London anymore. 

Something about the air, perhaps it was because it was so fresh and clean. He could fill his lungs with it, and couldn’t detect even the slightest trace of London smell, the smoke let off by cigarettes, the constant damp smell, it was all gone. 

He felt awfully out of place, all of a sudden.

The town was all medieval, nothing steel or glass. There were no phone boxes around, let alone the bereft of people. 

The entire place was rather eerie. 

John sighed, and limped around another corner, then stopped dead at the sight that he saw. 

A long, stone bridge crossed some chasm that he didn’t remember seeing before. It was made of cobbles, and seemed like it was at least ten metres wide, and twenty metres long. Unlit torches sat on the low walls of the bridge. 

The bridge wasn’t what astounded the army doctor, though. 

At the end of the bridge, a great, tall structure reared into the air. It contrasted to the rest of the town in that it seemed like it was almost Roman in appearance, but a sort of crooked Roman building. The pillars, while tall, white and cylindrical in shape, were slightly off-kilter, as if a giant had come along and tipped them this way and that. Further levels were stacked on top of the first, large, white affairs with white marble balconies and arches, windows with no glass, just wooden shutters to cover them up. 

Greenery grew out of the great building like it had been built that way, allowing the plants to poke their heads through. To add to this, there were aqueducts twisting about the place, water sloshing through them that John could hear, even from this distance off. The water seemed to exit the place, and then enter it at some other point, and some even led down to below the chasm, wherever that was going. 

Water seemed to be a main feature of the structure, and John was distinctly reminded of something he’d seen in a history textbook. Something about a Roman bathhouse? 

Yes. That seemed right. John thought that it might be one of those. A bathhouse. 

The sound of a train clacking over rails interrupted John’s musings, and he realised that it was coming from the chasm. Stepping up onto the bridge, he limped over to the low wall, and peered over and down into the chasm. That was when he saw the train. 

Far, far below him, on silver tracks that shone in the low sunset light, a small steam train trundled along the tracks, its engine and two carriages slowly ambling by. A cloud of steam floated up out of the train, carrying with it the scent of burning coal. 

Curious, John turned to watch it go past the other side of the bridge, when he caught sight of the strangest-looking young man he had ever seen. 

Standing on the bridge, his eyes wide, was a young man in a coat. Tall, and thin, he had a pile of dark curls haloing his face, and coming down to rest on the pale skin of his forehead. Brilliant, bright eyes sat over a low brow, coloured a strange mix of grey, green and blue. These were set over high, arched cheekbones and a long nose, with pinked lips parted slightly in surprise. John fixated on these lips for a moment — vaguely heart shaped and plush. 

All John could see of what the man was wearing was a long, black overcoat that reached the man’s knees, long, tailored pants and a pair of shining dress shoes, as well as a blue scarf wrapped around a thin, pale throat. 

‘Why are you here?’ asked the young man, snapping his mouth shut, and frowning, confused. 

‘Who are you?’ asked John. The young man waved a leather-gloved hand. 

‘Not important. I want to know why you’re here.’ 

John shrugged. ‘I just kind of wandered in.’ 

‘From the human world?’ John frowned at the odd question. 

‘What do you mean; “the human world”?’ he asked. 

‘Oh, I see. You followed your sibling.’ 

‘How do you know that?’ John demanded, pursing his lips. 

‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ the man asked yet another question. 

‘Sorry, what?’ 

‘It’s a simple question,’ replied the young man, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ 

‘Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?’ 

‘Simple,’ scoffed the young man, ‘I also know that you’re an army doctor, you were invalided home and that your limp’s psychosomatic. I also know you’ve got a brother, but you won’t go to him for help, likely because he’s an alcoholic.’ 

‘Ho… how on Earth can you know that?!’ demanded John. 

‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘Your haircut, and the way you hold yourself is reminiscent of the military, but the stitching on the clothes that you’ve clearly repaired yourself is similar to that used as sutures to stitch up a patient. That tells me you’re also a doctor. You’ve got a cane, and you walk with a limp, but when you stand still it almost seems like you forget it, so it is at least partially psychosomatic. I know you came here with your brother because his dirty handprint is recent, too recent to have been made before you “wandered” in here, clearly on the sleeve of your jumper, likely where he leaned against it when he was drunk. The next bit you know. In your pocket, I can see there’s a piece of paper, it’s sticking out, and the name “Harry” in shaky handwriting is visible, so it’s probably where he wrote down his phone number, but he was drunk when he did so. Therefore the writing is shaky and half unintelligible due to the alcohol in his system…’ 

Suddenly, the young man trailed off. 

‘That … was amazing!’ exclaimed John, ignoring the fact that the young man was looking past him. 

The man’s strange eyes locked back on John’s face. 

‘You really think so?’ he asked, red flooding across his cheekbones. 

‘It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.’

‘That’s not what people usually say,’ he said, hesitantly. 

‘Really?’ asked John, curious, ‘what do they normally say?’ 

The young man didn’t reply, just looking behind John, then stepping forwards and grabbing his hand, tugging him towards the town. 

‘What are you doing?!’ John yelped. 

‘You have to leave! Now!’ exclaimed the mysterious young man. 

‘What? Why?’ 

‘Because,’ replied the young man, ‘they’re lighting the lamps. They can’t know you’re here.’

‘Who can’t?’ 

‘Not important,’ he said, ‘what is important is getting out of here. You need to get across the river before nightfall. Get your brother and leave!’ 

‘Fine, fine,’ John muttered, ‘if you really don’t want me here, then I’ll go. Jesus.’ 

‘Go! I’ll distract them.’ 

With that, the young man’s warm hand left John’s own, and he turned, his coat flaring out in a sudden breeze that seemed to have come from nowhere. The tinkling of bells could be heard, far off, as John quickly limped through the streets of the town, towards where he left his sister. 

The cobbles clicked under his cane as he made his way back up to the wooden door, throwing it open. 

‘Harry, come…’ 

His voice left him as he saw what was inside the room. 

Instead of his sister, there was a giant, snorting pig, its great maw gulping down food. It was wearing his sister’s clothes, its fat bulging out from between the top and bottom. The pig still, for some reason, had her hair, her ashy gold locks still tied up, but greasy and full of crumbs. 

‘Harry?’ John questioned. 

The pig didn’t reply, just turned and snorted at him, before returning to the food. It attempted to climb up onto the table, but was suddenly beaten back with a sharp stick, by a shadowy figure who John couldn’t entirely make out The pig fell towards him, almost tumbling on top of John before he could gather his wits about him and stumble backwards to the door. 

It fell open behind him, and John, his heart thumping in his chest, scrambled to his feet, and then began to run towards where he remembered the river being as fast as he possibly could. 

Behind him, the lights were beginning to brighten, and the torches were all aflame now, lighting up the way with orange, flickering lights. 

Past the old buildings John sprinted, trying his best to keep his feet under him, until he spotted the sign that they had seen before, just by the riverbed and the steps. 

Stumbling down the steps, blind now in the dark, John tried to find his way towards the first of the boulders, but before he could, he encountered water. With a great splash, he fell into the water. 

It surrounded him, cold and foreboding, and he could feel the strong tug of a current, trying to sweep him away. 

Before it could, he stumbled out of the water, shivering from the cold air hitting his now-damp skin. 

It all felt like some horrible fever dream, and John realised that it must just be that. Maybe he had taken one too many painkillers or sleeping pills, and now he was in the middle of some strange hallucination. 

He couldn’t say that this felt like anything that could happen in real life, as he looked up and realised that what was once plain grass, a slight hill and a riverbed was now a great river, with shimmering, shining orange city lights on the other side. 

Blinking, John reached out a hand and pinched himself, trying to unseen what he was clearly seeing. 

The pinch hurt more than he was expecting it to, and John let out an involuntary hiss of pain. It served to tell him even more that he was probably not hallucinating any of this, and that his sister really had turned into a pig, and that there was suddenly a river where there hadn’t been before. 

‘Oh God,’ he murmured, in disbelief, ‘oh God.’ 

Suddenly, he spotted something on the river, coming towards him. He didn’t think it had been there before, it seemed like it had just sort of … materialised. 

A great barge, in old wood with swirling patterns on the hull was headed towards him. It was a triple decked thing, with bright, orange lights shimmering and shining. It bubbled over the river towards him, and he had to scramble out of the way. 

Something told him that he didn’t want whatever it was on the barge to see him. 

The barge scraped against the stone steps nearby, and then a wide plank of wood crashed down onto the stone, creating a sort of ramp down from the barge. 

In unison, all the doors on the barge opened, and a series of masks seemed to float out of the doors, in some unknown order, flowing down towards the ramp. They floated down the ramp, and as soon as they reached dry land, their invisibility seemed to melt, revealing brightly coloured cloaks that covered their bodies. The _things_ that materialised were stout and squat, and their masks were oval in shape, showing the grinning faces of various humanoid animals, such as birds and pigs and lizards. 

From an objective standpoint, the masks were lovely, jewelled things, but in context, they seemed almost grotesque, terrifyingly grinning like the turning plastic ball heads at the sideshow fair. The bodies began to amble up the stone path towards the town. 

Stumbling backwards, John tried his best to blend into the darkness, scrambling behind a convenient nearby boulder. He crouched behind it, leaning his back against the stone and putting his head in his hands. 

This was all going wrong, and John realised that for the first time in his life, he was actually scared. He had no idea where he was, he just knew that somehow he was very far from anything that could be considered familiar. 

With a start, he realised that he could suddenly see through his hands, to his knees beneath him. 

Leaning back, John had to resist the urge to scream at the fact that his hands were see-through. In his hands he could see the background, the dark river and the shimmering lights of the city on the far side of it. 

‘Oh God,’ he gasped, ‘oh God, please no! I cannot be turning invisible! Please oh God…’ 

Attempting to make himself not-invisible, he began to rub his hands together, only to realise that his arms were beginning to turn invisible as well. It seemed to slowly be creeping up his body to his torso and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to stop it. 

‘Calm down,’ a familiar, baritone voice said from behind him, ‘it’s going to be okay.’ 

‘No, it’s not!’ he exclaimed, ‘It’s not okay! I’m turning invisible!’ 

‘Excellent observation, John, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.’ 

John turned to the young man he had met before, who had knelt down next to him. ‘What do you … I just can’t … help me, please!’ 

The young man huffed out a sigh, but reached out an arm, and pulled John into him. John started, in surprise, but let the mysterious young man tug him in. 

The young man’s other hand came up, and held out a small, red berry. 

‘You have to eat this. You have to eat something from this world or you’ll disappear.’ 

‘No!’ John shook his head, vehemently. ‘I don’t want to turn into a pig!’ 

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ snarked the young man, ‘it won’t turn you into a pig. Please, John, just eat it.’ The hand pressed the berry against John’s lips, forcing it through. It sat, sweet on John’s tongue, and reluctantly, he swallowed it, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. 

‘Calm down, John,’ said the soft baritone, ‘it’s going to be fine. I promise.’ 

‘How… how do you know my name?’ asked John, hesitantly.

‘I’ve known you for quite some time, John,’ replied the mysterious young man. 

‘Where’s my sister?’ 

‘Sister?!’ exclaimed the young man, ‘sister. Oh, there’s always something. She was turned into a pig, she consumed the food of the gods.’ 

John let out a rough, coarse laugh. 

‘What do you mean? Gods? What is this place, anyway?’ 

‘This is the Godworld. Or the Spirit World. Depends, honestly, on how obnoxious the person you ask is.’

‘Who are you, anyway?’ 

‘My name is Sherlock,’ replied the young man. 

John felt like he recognised the name from somewhere. Somehow, he thought, he might know that name. Perhaps from when he was very young. It felt like the memory was far away, and he couldn’t possibly recall where it came from. 

‘Sherlock,’ he whispered, ‘that’s an odd name.’ 

Sherlock let out a low laugh. ‘You should hear my brother’s name,’ he replied, just as softly. 

There was a beat of silence. 

‘Sherlock,’ John asked, turning to the dark-haired man, ‘how do I save my sister?’ 

‘Come with me,’ Sherlock said, by way of reply. He tugged John to his feet, taking him by the hand. 

With a tug, they were off, John pulled along by his hand in Sherlock’s. After a few steps, they seemed to impossibly speed up, darting through the town so quickly that it was a complete blur John couldn’t make out a single building, until they turned the corner and paused just in front of the bridge, in a small, empty alley. 

Poking his head around the corner, John could make out that the town seemed like it was now flooded with … not people. John couldn’t really find a word to describe what he was seeing. There were flows of beings, treating the street as if it were a perfectly normal place, and yet the beings walking through were nothing like human. They seemed to be almost alien, stumpy, cloaked things with masks, animals walking about on their hind legs, things that looked almost human if it weren’t for their animal heads, and John even spotted a group of giant frogs. 

Sherlock tugged him back into the alley, pressing a finger to his lips silently. 

‘If you want even the slightest chance of saving your sister, you need togo down to the boiler room. There you’ll find Mrs Hudson. She’ll give you a job. You must demand it of her, even if she says no, you must insist. That is the only way you’ll be able to stay here, and save your sister.’ 

He reached up an ungloved hand, long-fingered and almost delicate looking. Sherlock pressed it to John’s forehead, and then the world melted away. John saw a hazy image of a set of stairs, down the side of a white structure he recognised as the bathhouse. It went down to a small, wooden door, which opened. 

Then, the vision finished, and John was left looking at Sherlock’s intense, blue-grey-green eyes. 

There was a moment of silence. 

John noticed, suddenly, a small splotch of brown just above the pupil of the right eye. It made him want to lean closer, try and see if he could find any others. 

Before he could, Sherlock stood, and pulled John to his feet, gathering him close and sweeping his coat around the shorter man. 

‘What? What are you doing?’ John asked, twisting his head to peer up at Sherlock. 

‘When we go over the bridge, you must hold your breath. If you breathe, they’ll be able to see you.’ 

‘O… okay…’ John agreed. 

Sherlock swept him out the alley, hurriedly, and then stepped towards the bridge. 

‘Deep breath,’ Sherlock whispered, and they paused for the briefest of moments, before Sherlock stepped onto the bridge, and John held the breath he had just taken in his lungs. 

They began to step quickly, in synchronisation, across the bridge, towards the bathhouse. John watched carefully as they passed with a group of tiger-masked, stumpy beings. 

Then, he noticed something. To his left, there was another … something. 

It was a tall, black figure, a something cloaked in black. It seemed hazy around the edges, as if it wasn’t really, completely there. It wore the mask of a child, a small, innocently smiling face. 

John tilted his head in confusion, but they had moved past the being before John could get a closer look. 

‘Almost there,’ whispered Sherlock, ‘just a few more…’ 

He was interrupted by a round, green frog with a set of small spectacles on its face. 

‘Master Sherlock,’ it … he greeted, jovially. ‘How are you?’ 

‘Fine, thank you, Mike,’ replied Sherlock, tersely. 

‘And the mission? Did you finish what Moriarty asked you to?’ 

‘Of course I did,’ said Sherlock, haughtily, as if the conclusion was obvious. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me…’ Sherlock tried to press past the large, green frog, but the frogs held out a hand. 

‘Just a moment, Master Sherlock…’ 

John’s lungs were burning. Screaming, even. He felt like he had to take a breath, and his head was feeling a little woozy already. He had to breathe! 

He couldn’t help it anymore. 

He let out his breath. 

The conversation between Sherlock and the frog, Mike, stopped. 

The frog took in a low breath. 

‘I smell… I smell a human!’ 

Sherlock raised a hand, flicking his fingers and catching the large frog in a black bubble, then tugged John out of sight, past a hedge and into the garden of the bathhouse. 

‘I’m sorry,’ John murmured, ‘I couldn’t…’ 

‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock said, looking around the hedge for anyone oncoming. 

‘Sherlock…’ John began, hesitantly. 

‘I said it’s fine,’ Sherlock snapped. John sighed, and looked away. 

They were right on the outside of the bathhouse, next to a small stone path leading to a set of gossamer thin curtains. Behind the curtains, John could see and hear the movements of … somethings inside the bathhouse. They were running about, their feet pattering across tiled floors. 

‘Master Sherlock!’ Calls could be heard from inside. 

Sherlock hissed in annoyance, pushing John further behind the hedge. 

Up above, there was a screech from the sky. John looked up, and saw a spiky, spindly-looking bird wheeling about high in the darkened sky. The bird was difficult to make out, jet black as it was, but John could see the shadow of it passing over the white dots of the stars. 

‘It’s Moriarty,’ Sherlock murmured, ‘He’s looking for you. If he finds you, he’ll turn you into a pig just like your sister.’ 

‘What? Why?’ asked John. 

‘Because,’ explained Sherlock, his expression like John had just dribbled on his shirt, ‘you’re a human. And this is the Godworld. Humans just aren’t supposed to be here.’ 

‘MASTER SHERLOCK!’ Another screeching call came. 

‘I have to go,’ Sherlock said, turning back to John, his expression suddenly hesitant. ‘Be safe.’ 

‘I’ll… I’ll try,’ replied John, equally as hesitant. 

Sherlock shook his head, tugging John towards a small gate, beyond which could be seen the edge of the bathhouse from his vision, and the long staircase. 

‘Down there,’ Sherlock hissed, just as another call of his name could be heard. ‘You’ll be alright?’ 

It almost wasn’t a question. 

John nodded anyway, reaching out to touch the gate. 

Sherlock nodded, seemingly reassuring himself, then, with a swirl of his coat, he was gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hesitantly, John opened the gate in front of him, stepping through carefully. He found himself on a small ledge overhanging the chasm, and the beginnings of the rickety old staircase that he had seen before in the vision at his feet. 

To his dismay, there weren’t any handrails. 

The staircase just seemed to wind down the side of the bathhouse, and into the chasm, by itself. It looked altogether unsteady, as if it were going to collapse down into the chasm at any point. 

Steeling his nerves, John stepped down onto the stairs, carefully working his way down to the second, then the third, then the fourth. 

Then the fifth. 

Then the sixth. 

The next step seemed easy. John placed his foot on to the wooden plank masquerading as a step, only for it to splinter and shatter under his foot with a thump. 

John let out a cry of surprise, throwing himself forwards in the hope that he would reach the next step safely, but his momentum threw him down the next one and the next one, until he was flashing down the staircase as fast as his feet could carry him, all in an effort to remain upright. He felt overbalanced and out of control, flying down the staircase like a madman, at any moment he could topple over, and fall straight down into the chasm, that he could now see had nothing at the bottom but stone. 

He sped down the staircase, until he reached another platform, this one stone instead of wood, and met the side of the building, slamming into it with a thump and crash. His skull cracked against the stone, and his nose felt like it had been crushed. 

‘Urgh…’

John stumbled a little ways backward, rubbing his nose in an effort to get rid of the feeling of it being broken, a bruise he knew was already forming on his forehead. 

After a moment, catching his breath, John leant around the corner that he had just slammed into, seeing another set of low, stone steps, these ones with a handrail, thankfully, and then, at the bottom, a brightly flaming torch over it, was the door Sherlock had shown him. 

John stepped around the corner, and clung to the handrail as he went down these final few steps, before knocking hesitantly on the door. 

There was no reply. 

John tried again, rapping sharply on the wood, but again, there was no response. Giving the door a bit of a shove, John realised that it wasn’t actually close. It creaked open with a low groan of metal, into a small, orange-lit corridor. 

Hesitantly, John stepped through into the corridor. 

It was warm, oddly so, with hissing, steaming pipes lining the walls. Steam was pouring from between the cracks of the pipes, filling the room with an iron sort of aroma, something else mixed in. Herbs of some kind, John guessed. 

Already beginning to sweat, John stepped up to the larger, iron door at the end of the corridor, pushing at it in an effort to get it open just as he had with the door outside. 

It didn’t budge. 

John pursed his lips, stepping back from the door, looking it over with a critical eye. Then, of course, he realised. A bolt was slid across the door from the outside. 

Sliding it across, John tried the door again, and this time it yielded under his hand, swinging open with a louder groan of metal hinges. The room beyond the iron door was slightly hazy with steam, and a great fire roared in a marble fireplace to the right. To the left of the room, there was a wall of wooden shelving, neatly woven baskets tucked in tightly against one another. John couldn’t quite make out what they were holding. 

What was most shocking, however, was that on the right, next to the fireplace, was a tall bench, an elderly woman sitting behind it.

An elderly woman with six arms. 

The elderly woman was short in stature, and had short, grey hair. She wore a purple dress and her six arms protruded out like those of a spider, long and spindly with gnarled hands at the end of each arm. 

John guessed that this must be Mrs Hudson. 

As he watched, she rung a small bell sitting next to her on the high counter. This bell prompted a series of tiny, black balls of … something … with long, spindly arms and legs, to emerge from small mouse hole looking tunnels below the shelves of baskets, and carry coal rocks over to the fire, tossing them in before ghosting back to the mouse holes. 

There seemed to be a lot of mysterious somethings in this world. 

‘Oh, hello dear, can I help you?’ The wavering voice of Mrs Hudson caught his attention, and he realised that she was speaking to him. 

‘Yeah … hi …’ John tried, uncertainly, ‘Sherlock sent me. He told me that I had to ask you for a job.’ 

Mrs Hudson let out a tutting noise, picking up a china teacup with a clink and taking a sip, before returning to whatever it was she was doing. It appeared as if she was grinding herbs together of some sort. ‘Sorry, dearie, I don’t have any place for a human to work here. There’s so much soot that I can just cast a spell on it and have all the workers I need.’ 

‘Please?’ John pleaded with her, ‘I need to have a job here.’ 

‘There’s no work for you here, dear,’ said Mrs Hudson, slightly more crossly. 

‘I need a job here, please,’ John tried again, stepping across the floor where the soot balls were working insistently, ’it’s to save my sister. She got turned into a pig! I have to have a job here.’ 

‘I’m sorry dear, it’s just too bad.’ 

John resisted the urge to growl in frustration, and was about to ask again, when something bumped into his foot. Looking down, John realised that one of the soot balls that was carrying a piece of coal had bumped into him, and was now angrily squeaking at him. 

‘Sorry,’ winced John, ‘so sorry.’ 

Carefully, trying his best not to get in anyone else’s way, he stepped over out of the way of the little soot balls, only to hear another tut from Mrs Hudson. 

‘Shoes, dearie, take off your shoes.’ 

John quickly sat down, peeling his shoes off his feet, and putting them down in the corner, away from where the soot balls were working. 

Fascinated, he watched as they worked, taking the coal over to the fireplace and tossing it in, before returning to the holes in the wall, then coming back out with another piece. The entire room was filled with the sounds of Mrs Hudson grinding away, and the pitter-patter of the tiny soot feet as they moved across the floor. 

Suddenly, one of Mrs Hudson’s arms reached out behind her, darting out towards him. 

‘Out the way, dearie.’ One of her gnarled hands gestured for him to move, and he quickly stumbled to the side, watching as her hand pulled out the wicker basket, reaching inside to grab out a handful of purple leaves, then closing the basket again. 

Looking back down, John began to watch the soot again. 

As John watched, he saw one soot ball struggling under the weight of a rather large stone of coal, until it collapsed in a puff of black and the coal clunked to the floor. Frowning, John reached over and tipped the piece of coal on the corner, allowing the small soot ball to reform. 

Instead of picking up the piece of coal, it flashed back into the mouse hole, before emerging again with another piece. 

John looked down at the clearly sentient soot, and raised an eyebrow. 

‘What should I do with this?’ he asked. 

‘Finish what you started, dear,’ prompted Mrs Hudson. 

With a sigh, and a twinge from his injured shoulder, he grit his teeth. Maybe if he proved he could work, Mrs Hudson would give him a job. He picked up the piece of coal, and stepped quickly over to the fire, tossing the piece in. 

This seemed to start a sudden wave, as the rest of the soot balls observed what he had done, and decided to drop their own pieces of coal on top of themselves, leaving nothing but coal rocks lying about the place. John backed off, quickly, as Mrs Hudson tutted, again. 

‘Don’t take other people’s jobs, dearie,’ she picked, ‘and the rest of you lazy bums should get back to work.’ 

The soot balls began to squeak angrily at John, advancing on him and shaking their coal stones about. 

Just then, there was a rustling sound, and a light purple coloured curtain that John hadn’t noticed previously was opened, allowing another man entrance. 

This man was just a little shorter than Sherlock in stature, and wore a pair of loose, flowing grey pants and a grey, short sleeved tunic that was tied off at the waist with a narrow white string. 

‘Hi Mrs Hudson!’ he greeted the elderly woman. 

‘Hello, Greg dear, how are you?’ 

‘Oh, the usual, you know how it is.’ Greg sighed. 

He was carrying a small, woven, wicker basket, filled with small, hard, pink candy-looking things, and a bowl of biscuits. ‘Where’s the last bowl, Mrs Hudson?’ 

‘Oh, here you are, dear,’ said the spidery looking older woman, reaching out one arm with an empty bowl to hand it to Greg, and taking the other one from his hands. 

Greg grinned, his tanned face creasing under feathered, silvery locks of hair he looked far too young to have. ‘I’ve told you, Mrs Hudson, just leave it behind the curtain and I can grab it in the mornings once you’re done.’ 

‘It’s fine, dearie. Besides, if I didn’t get to talk to you, there’s no one I can talk to besides the soot,’ she replied, ‘and they’re _soot!’_

‘Indeed, Mrs Hudson,’ replied Greg, turning to the balls of soot. ‘Come on then, you lot, feeding time.’ 

The balls of soot began to squeak, happily now, darting across the floor to where Greg was standing, just as he reached into his basket and began to toss handfuls of the pink candies across the floor for the soot balls. They happily munched away at the candies, as the man sprinkled the floor with them. 

Then, Greg turned, and caught sight of where John was, in the corner, surrounded by piles of coal. 

‘Hey! You’re the human that everyone’s looking for!’ 

‘I… I…’ John tried to protest. 

‘Oh, you’re in big trouble!’ Greg said, ‘Moriarty’s furious!’ 

‘He’s my son.’ 

Surprised, John turned, realising that Mrs Hudson had said that. 

‘He wants to work here, but I’m fully staffed for now. Would you take him to see Moriarty about getting a job? He’s tough, he can handle it.’ 

‘What? Why me?’ Greg protested. 

‘I’ll give you this,’ Mrs Hudson said, reaching out a hand with what looked like a croissant, except it was jet black. 

John could almost see Greg begin to salivate at whatever it was. His brown eyes were wide, as the other man snatched it out of the air. 

‘Done!’ exclaimed Greg, gleefully. ‘What’s your name?’ 

‘My name’s John,’ replied John, hastily, ‘John Watson.’ 

‘Alright, John, come on then.’ John nodded, hastily, and followed after Greg, who was holding open the curtain. ‘Oh, and remember to thank Mrs Hudson. She’s really sticking out her head for you.’ 

‘Oh, right,’ John nodded, and turned to Mrs Hudson, ‘Thanks Mrs Hudson.’ 

‘That’s alright, dear, just come and visit me sometime, yes?’ 

‘Al… alright…’ John mumbled. 

‘Hurry up, John!’ called Greg, from up ahead. 

‘Coming!’ replied John, hurrying after the taller man. 

***

They made their way through a set of cool, tiled hallways, in white marble. They were slightly damp, and dark, with only small torches lighting up the way. Various curtains hung in doorways, beyond which could be heard the sounds of various steaming pots. 

John suspected that this was where food was cooked, as a delicious smell permeated the entire corridor. 

Down the end of the corridor, a small wooden door stood, a rounded symbol over the top of it. 

‘We have to take that lift up to the main bath floor,’ said Greg, pointing at the wooden door. 

‘That’s an elevator?’ questioned John, looking at the lift suspiciously. It seemed rather old, and slightly rickety, as if as soon as they stepped inside it, it would break and plunge them to their deaths. 

‘Don’t worry, it’s worked fine for ages.’ 

John pursed his lips, but followed Greg through the sliding door into the small, dingy, wooden box. There was a brass lever on the wall, which Greg used, the lift springing upwards. John’s stomach felt like it suddenly fell out his legs, as the lift shook up. 

The lift wasn’t actually a box, he realised. It was open, just a platform really, with a set of supporting pillars holding up a ceiling. He could see the elevator shaft passing by, right next to his nose, until the elevator shaft was no more. 

John realised that he could see out, onto the main floor of the bath house. It was hazy with steam, but he could make out that it was brightly lit, and that the baths were made of the same white marble that seemed to make up most of the building. The water was slightly hazy and green, with a large, rectangular, swimming pool looking bath down the centre, sectioned off by large curtains, with pillars between them. Behind the curtains, seperate, smaller baths were located, and at the far end, a simply enormous tub was sitting. 

The odd beings he had seen going into the bath outside were creeping between the baths, from the hot baths into what John saw was actually a massive, cold tub. 

‘The spirits go into the hot baths to clean themselves, with the help of the staff,’ explained Greg, ‘but when they’re overheated, they can dip into the cold bath and cool off.’ 

The entire place was huge, and John could even see more human-looking people wandering between the baths with scrubbing brushes and other offerings. There were even human-looking beings in the tubs themselves, laughing in groups with spirits, or one-on-one with single spirits. 

With a sudden ding, the lift halted, and the doors slid open. 

Greg blanched at the sight that greeted them, and John turned to look. 

Standing in the door to the lift was a bulging, white, _thing._ It had a small loincloth covering its privacy, and the head of a rat.

‘The rat spirit!’ Greg said, his voice falsely sweet. 

The rat-headed spirit reached up one hand, and gestured upwards with a grunt. The smell he let off was pungent, odorous, and more than a little retch-inducing. John had to grit his teeth against the bile rising in his oesophagus. 

‘Sorry,’ said Greg, ‘this lift doesn’t go any higher. You’ll have to go to another one.’ 

He grabbed John’s arm in a vice-grip, tugging him out of the lift and towards another marble corridor. This one was much wider, and more brightly lit, with beautiful curtains standing open to another floor of baths. The warm, herbal smell of the scented bathwater permeated through the entire hallway, filling the air with a deliciously pungent scent. 

John risked a glance behind them, and saw the rat-faced spirit trudging after them. 

‘He’s following us,’ John hissed at Greg. 

‘I know,’ Greg replied, ‘just don’t look at him.’ 

The tiled hallway finished in another lift door, this one far more elegant and decorated with beautiful golden swirling patterns. With a click, it arrived, and the doors slid open, the sounds of voices coming from inside. 

‘… Just this way, sir, we’ll find you a nice, large, bath…’ 

A young man with bright, blonde hair was standing at the front of the group of older-looking spirits, all with heavy-set bodies and wearing dressing-gowns over bulging bellies. The young man had a simpering look on his face, and large, blue eyes that leant him a very innocent appearance, aside from the fact that he was wearing naught but a tiny piece of cloth to cover his modesty. 

John grimaced, as he saw the older, heavy-set spirits laugh deep in their chests, and the largest of them lay a hand low on the young boy’s back. The young boy giggled coquettishly, gesturing for the spirits to exit the elevator. 

The spirits exited in front of him, and the young man paused, in front of Greg, for a moment. Greg pushed John further behind him, turning slightly so that John would have access to the lift, stepping inside quickly as Greg protected him from view. 

‘I can smell human on you, Greg,’ said the young man, in a surprisingly nasally voice. ‘What are you hiding?’ 

‘Nothing,’ replied Greg, just as the rat-faced spirit lumbered past him into the lift, squashing John against the back. 

‘No, I’m sure of it! I can smell human on you! Where are you hiding it?’ demanded the blond. 

‘Maybe you’re smelling this,’ said Greg, pulling out the black pastry he had been given by Mrs Hudson. John watched in trepidation as the young blond began to visibly salivate, and tried to snatch it from Greg. 

‘Is that … can I have some? Please?’ begged the young boy, his blue eyes wide. ‘I just … let me just nibble it a bit … just a crumb …’ 

‘ _If you want to go up, pull the lever on your right!’_ Greg whispered, out of the corner of his mouth, at John, as he again pulled the croissant out of the reach of the young man. _‘You’ll have to make a deal with Moriarty to get a job here.’_

John tried to reach around the spirit, struggling to get a hand on the lever. It ghosted over the tips of his fingers before he was able to get a proper grasp on it, but when he did, he pulled it down towards himself, and the lift doors slid shut, just as he saw Greg shove the entire pastry in his mouth. 

The lift shot upwards, dinging past the floors. The rat-faced spirit’s scent was filling John’s nose, cloying and irritating, and he felt slightly damp. With a start of horror, he realised that the spirit had begun to sweat, and was sweating allover John. 

John tried his hardest not to retch in disgust, but couldn’t help the rise of bile in the back of his throat, as he pressed himself hard against the back wall of the lift in the hopes that he could avoid throwing up and getting entirely dampened by the rat-face spirit. 

The heat of the lift was also increasing rapidly, as the large mass of the rat-faced spirit made the air warmer and warmer, until it felt almost muggy, like a too-hot day in Kandahar. 

To his utmost relief, they reached the next floor fairly quickly, and the door opened up with a ding. The rat-face spirit lumbered out of the lift, and John quickly shut the doors behind him, pulling the lever again to try and get away, so that the rat-faced spirit wouldn’t try to get back into the lift. 

The lift shot upwards again, jolting and fast. Now that it was free from the larger spirit, the air was cooler and fresher, and John finally felt like he could breathe properly again. 

With a sigh, he leant against the wall, his shoulder aching, as the lift shook to a stop, and the door opened for a final time. 

John peered out of the lift hesitantly, into the cool corridors of the top floor of the bath house. It was eerily silent, not a step or a breath could be heard. The marble was cool, and bathed in dim, orange light from the flickering wall sconces. It smelt bereft, for some reason, and slightly musty, as if it had been empty for some time. It almost smelt like a library, somehow, like the back corner of the shelf where no one had pulled out books for at least half a century. 

Carefully stepping out into the hallway, John wandered past another curtain that was flicking in the breeze, coming in off a balcony, and then past a beautiful, purple, wooden tapestry that seemed to depict the scene of a river flowing rapidly over rocks. It seemed so realistic that he wanted to lean forwards and touch it, to try and stick his fingers into the bubbling, swirling water depicted there. 

Turning down another marble tiled hallway, he came up short at a dead end, where a set of large, green painted wooden doors stood, tightly shut. They were embellished with tiny gold scrolls, and a brass knocker was hammered into the wood, a face fashioned from it, peering out into the hallway with an almost suspicious look. The knocker was ugly, with a huge nose and bulging eyes. 

Reaching out, John tried the handle, rattling it and tugging it in an attempt to open it. 

‘Aren’t you at least going to knock?!’ demanded the knocker, suddenly, in a nasally tone. ‘Honestly, you humans are all the same. Rude.’ 

The knocker swung, hitting against the door, which opened with a sudden creak, swinging back and knocking against the wall behind it. 

There was nothing beyond but a dim room, with a set of curtains beyond that, falling down and hiding whatever was beyond them. 

‘Well?’ A loud, almost sweet sounding voice with a horribly hard, nasty, sing-song edge to it permeated through to John’s ears. It made him shudder, wanting to stumble backwards and run away. ‘Come in!’ 

With a sudden tug behind his navel, John was pulled forwards, through the curtains, which whipped across his face, filling his nostrils with the scent of mothballs. He was then tugged through another set of curtains, and another, and another, each set flapping out behind him and filling his nostrils with dust, making it difficult to breathe. 

When he finally ground to a halt, it was in a study sort of room, with a large, black desk to the right, a curtain opening out onto a balcony on the left, and another set of curtains going deep into the bowels of these rooms next to the desk. 

John had to bend nearly double, coughing and retching up the scent of dust and mothballs, wheezing through his nose to attempt to get oxygen into his lungs. 

It was only when he could push himself back upright that he saw the person standing, leaning against the desk almost casually. 

The man had jet black hair and black, piggy eyes that shimmered like buttons. Thin lips were curled into a nasty smirk, fixing John nervously in place, and making him feel like the victim of some great bird of prey. The man wore a sharp black suit, with a neat tie and shoes so shiny that John thought he might be able to see his own reflection in them. 

‘Hello, Johnny-boy,’ said the man — Moriarty — his lips curled into a sneer, ‘it’s ever so nice to meet you.’ 

John took a deep breath, and steeled his nerves, then, just as he had done with Mrs Hudson; ‘I’d like a job.’ 

‘No,’ snapped Moriarty, clearly irritated, ‘why should I give you a job? You’re nothing but a lazy, stupid _human._ ’ 

‘Please, will you give me a job?’ 

‘No!’ Moriarty said, flicking a finger out. John found that he suddenly couldn’t move his lips, couldn’t say anything at all. ‘I’m not going to give you a job. I’m going, Johnny-boy, to turn you into a nasty, fat pig just like your sister.’ 

Getting up from leaning against the desk, Moriarty walked over to John, running a finger up and down his arm, before twisting behind him to sniff at John’s ear. John shuddered, and tried to move away, only to find that his feet had been rooted to the ground, so he had no choice but to stand there and let Moriarty run his fingers up and down his arms and his neck. 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Moriarty, ‘perhaps once I’ve turned you into a pig, I’ll get the cook to make you into bacon, and perhaps then I’ll eat you myself. I bet you’d like that, Johnny-boy, I bet you’d simply _adore_ being munched on by me.’ 

John felt another round of shivers wrack his body, and he shook his head vehemently. 

‘No?’ sighed Moriarty, ‘oh, well, I suppose that’s too bad.’ 

Stepping away, he turned his back on John, and shrugged, noncommittally. 

‘Perhaps if you tell me who it was who let you in here, I’ll let you stay in the pen for a little while, before I eat you. You might even get to see your sister again.’ 

With a flick of his finger, he allowed John to move his lips again. 

‘I want a job here please!’ John repeated, more vehement this time. 

Furious, Moriarty turned on one heel, stalking towards John. 

‘I TOLD YOU NOT TO ASK ME FOR A JOB!’ he bellowed, right in John’s face. John flinched backwards, slightly, and was about to fall backwards in an attempt to just get away, when _something_ roared behind the curtain next to Moriarty’s desk.

Moriarty’s eyes went wide, and he turned and flashed over to the curtains, opening them so that he could stick his head inside. 

‘Oh, I’m so sorry Sebby, did I wake you?’ he said, in a much sweeter voice, ‘I’m soo sorry…’ 

‘Please, will you give me a job?’ asked John, once more, in a louder voice. Moriarty didn’t turn, just flicked a hand, dismissively. 

‘Oh, fine, whatever you want, Johnny-boy…’ 

Then, Moriarty was gone, disappearing around the curtains. 

Behind him, the room was left completely silent, aside from the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. A breeze blew in through the window, carrying with it the scent of the herbal water being used down in the bath house proper. 

Quietly, almost so quietly that John didn’t notice, a piece of paper and a pen floated off Moriarty’s desk towards him. 

John snatched the paper and pen out of the air just as Moriarty blew back into the room. He was growling in annoyance, and brushing his hands together. 

‘That is your contract, Johnny-boy,’ said Moriarty, ‘sign it with your name and the place you came from, and you can have a job.’ 

He wandered back over to his desk, muttering under his breath in a tone that betrayed his annoyance. 

It was too low for John to catch it all, ‘… _stupid Mycroft … damn curse … have to give a job to anyone … lazy …’_

John quickly scribbled down his full name, and “London”, just as Moriarty flicked out an impatient finger, which drew the contract towards him. Stepping back, John watched as the man inspected the papers carefully. Moriarty almost reminded him of a spider — making him want to uncomfortably scratch at his skin. 

John resisted this urge, as he watched Moriarty run an almost reverent finger over the words that he had just written on the page. 

‘Your home,’ he murmured, ‘is mine now.’ 

And, to John’s horror, he ran a finger over the word “London”, and it lifted up from the page, and disappeared into Moriarty’s fist. 

Moriarty looked up from the page and grinned a ferocious grin, one that made John feel like his stomach was falling out. John bit his lip, and nervously looked around, rubbing his hands together, trying to look anywhere but at Moriarty. His grin was too wide, too predatory, and John literally wished he was anywhere but where he was right now. 

That was the first point at which John thought he might have made more than a little bit of a mistake. 

‘Oh Sherlock!’ Moriarty’s sickly sweet voice permeated through the room, echoing off the marble. 

‘You sent for me?’ Sherlock’s familiar baritone resounded, as the tall, black coated man stepped in through the billowing curtains. 

John looked over at him, but Sherlock’s eyes didn’t flash with even the slightest hint of recognition. His eyes were completely cold, and irreconcilable with the slightly shy, abrasive man he had met earlier on the bridge. 

‘Yes,’ said Moriarty, his voice bored, and drawling now. ‘Take John here down to the baths and put him to work.’ 

With a dismissive flick of his hand, John realised that they had been dismissed, as Sherlock turned on one heel, and swept through the curtains once more. 

***

In the lift, John looked up at Sherlock, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. The elevator shot down the shaft, bereft of anyone besides himself and Sherlock. 

‘Sherlock…’ John tried, after a moment, unsure of what it was he wanted to say. 

‘You will address me as Master Sherlock,’ replied the taller man, in his deep baritone. 

John felt rejected, pursing his lips tightly. He pulled himself more upright, straightening his shoulders and, on instinct, falling into parade rest. 

Just then, the lift slid to a stop, dinging open to what looked like the main reception of the bath house. Gathered around a high table behind which sat an anthropomorphic frog were groups of what looked like humans. To the right of the desk was a large group of giggling young men and women, all astoundingly attractive, and all wearing barely anything to cover their modesty. At the head of the group was a young woman with neatly coiffed black hair curled around her head and red lipstick painted over her rounded lips. 

To the left of the high desk were a group of other young men and women, these in outfits just like the one that Greg wore. Actually, Greg was amongst them, standing just at the head of the group just as the young woman with red lips was standing at the head of the group on the right. 

Directly in the centre was a group of brightly coloured anthropomorphic frogs in a rainbow of colours from blue to red to violet. The were wearing aprons, and a few were brandishing cooking utensils, so John guessed these were the cooks. 

Sherlock stepped forwards, out of the lift, tugging John along with him, then pushing him to the forefront, in the middle of all the groups. 

‘Moriarty has John under contract here, now,’ said Sherlock, ‘which of you need new workers?’ 

‘We can’t take him,’ said on of the frogs, in a high, squeaky voice. ‘He doesn’t look like he’ll be much use as a cook.’ 

There was a beat of silence, until the barely-clad, dark haired woman at the head of the group of young men and women stepped forwards. ‘I’ll take him,’ she smiled, a nasty thing that seemed almost predatory, ‘He seems fierce. I’m sure a lovely young woman would adore that.’ 

‘Mmm,’ giggled a young, sandy haired boy behind her, ‘Irene, can I be the first to have him? I’d love him to fuck me through the…’ 

‘Ahem!’ coughed Greg, suddenly, ‘I think I’ll take him, actually, Sherlock. I’ve been needing an assistant.’ 

‘Fine, do what you want, Lestrade,’ said Sherlock, turning his back on John and sweeping off down a nearby tiled hallway. 

After Sherlock went, the people in the reception seemed to just wander off, the young, barely clad young men and women disappearing around a thin, gossamer purple curtain, and the cooks heading for a set of marble steps nearby. 

Greg grabbed John’s arm once more, tugging him towards a nearby curtain. ‘Come on, we have to get down to the sleeping spot, and hopefully we can scrounge up some food for the both of us.’ 

***

Greg led him down a marble staircase, and around a few corners until they reached a hallway that was much dimmer than the rest of the bath house, and the marble floors lacked the intricate, tiled designs seen everywhere else, replaced by simple, dirty, white tiles.

John followed after Greg, as Greg strode confidently through the dim corridor. 

‘What’s with Sherlock, anyway?’ John asked, after a moment.

‘Sherlock?’ questioned Greg, raising an eyebrow, ‘oh, he’s just Moriarty’s henchman. Don’t trust anything he has to say — he just does Moriarty’s bidding.’ 

Confused, John frowned. ‘Is there two of them, then?’ 

‘Two? What? No!’ Greg grinned, ‘One is bad enough. Come on.’ 

Tugging him up a low step, and through a curtain, Greg gestured around at the room they entered. 

Straw mats were laid out on the floor, and shelves with wicker baskets neatly packed in lined the walls. The furthermost wall was open to the air, gossamer-thin curtains tied away from it, opening onto a small balcony with an iron balustrade. 

Already there were a few thin, narrow mattresses strewn about, pushed up tightly against the walls, with a thick blanket piled up on top of it, covering a body each. 

‘Here we are, this is our room,’ Greg said, gesturing about them. ‘Come on, we need to get you a uniform.’ 

‘Hey, Greg, can you keep it down?’ A young, mousy-looking, brown-haired young woman sat up, rubbing at her face tiredly. 

‘Sorry, Molls,’ Greg said, softer now. ‘Come here, John.’ 

John followed Greg to over where he was pulling out neatly folded up clothes. 

‘Here,’ said Greg, handing a soft, grey, folded set of pants to John, ‘here are your trousers, and a top,’ John was handed another grey piece, ‘and, of course, you need an apron. You have to put this on underneath your clothes, it’s sort of like pants, because Moriarty doesn’t like it when the customers can see your apron. He thinks it’s messy.’ 

‘Tha… thanks…’ John said. 

‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ prompted Greg, ‘pop out onto the balcony and change, yeah?’ 

‘Alright,’ John nodded, taking the clothes, and stepping out onto the balcony. 

Despite the fact that he felt horribly exposed, he pulled the apron, and the long, billowy trousers on, then removed his jumper and shirt, replacing them with the soft, loose, linen top he had been handed, and tied it off with the white string that Greg had curled on top of the pile of clothing. 

Just then, there was a screeching sound, and John started, looking up into the sky to see a bird of prey wheeling overhead. Startling, John stumbled back, falling up the steps back into the room. 

‘Alright?’ asked Greg, from the corner of the room. 

‘Yeah,’ replied John, glancing back out to the balcony, where the sky was paling and pinning with the dawn. The bird was nowhere to be seen. ‘Fine, I think.’ 

‘Come here, then,’ said Greg, gesturing to where he had set up two mattresses side-by-side, one closer to the wall and the other further out. He was already laying under the duvet on the further one, so John crept over, and clambered onto the one closer to the wall. 

The mattress was tough, and hard, and his shoulder was already beginning to ache because of it, but John also knew that he just had to suck it up. He had slept on worse in the army. 

‘You sure you’re okay?’ asked Greg, again, worry in his voice. 

‘Just… a bit shocked, I think,’ said John, after a moment of hesitation, ‘I just … I didn’t expect this to happen.’ 

‘Well, what did you think was going to happen when you came to the Spirit World?’ 

‘I didn’t know,’ replied John, sadly, ‘I kind of just … wandered in … by accident. I was following my sister. She thought she smelt food, and then we ended up in the town, and she ate the food, and turned into a pig.’ 

‘Ah,’ said Greg, ‘well, I suppose it does explain why a human is in the Spirit World.’ 

‘What about you?’ asked John, quietly. 

‘I …’ Greg looked confused, for a moment. ‘There was someone, I think. I’m a spirit, I’m a fox spirit. And I lived with someone, but after a while, I just ended up here. I’m not sure where I came from, really.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ said John. 

‘I am too,’ Greg murmured. ‘I miss him. Someone. I don’t know. I’ve just … for as long as I can remember being here, I feel like I’m missing someone. Someone who was very important to me. I think I loved him.’ 

‘Him?’ John questioned. 

‘Yeah,’ replied Greg, ‘that’s what I do remember. He was the most magnificent thing I’d ever seen. He was beautiful, and powerful, but I cannot for the life of me remember who it was. Whenever I try to picture him, whenever I try to remember my home with him, I can’t see it.’ 

‘Well, maybe, when I escape with my sister, you can come along and we can try to find whoever it is you’re looking for,’ said John, after a moment of thought. 

‘Ha!’ laughed Greg, ‘It’s practically impossible to escape. Trust me, I know people who’ve tried. Moriarty just turns them into pigs.’ 

With that, Greg turned over, and tucked his duvet up to his ears. John knew the conversation was over, then. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sunlight drew long lines across the warm piles of bedding strewn about the room, as John huddled himself further under the covers next to Greg. 

He couldn’t sleep. 

How could he? John found the he was completely overwhelmed, everything that had happened still trying to process in his head. He had gone from being in a pub with his sister, to running down some mysterious alleyway, only to have that same sister somehow turned into a pig. Now here he was, trapped in this bathhouse, under contract for some reason, desperately hoping for a way out. 

Despite this, he couldn’t help but think about what Greg had told him. 

That no one escaped. 

And then, of course, there was the mystery of Sherlock. The tall, curly-haired man (or was he a spirit?) who helped him, then proceeded to completely ignore him. The entire thing was completely confusing, and John couldn’t help but feel more than a little overwhelmed and rejected by what Sherlock had done. 

The man seemed to switch on a dime. 

John himself had thought that there was something there. Something in those flickering, grey-blue-green eyes. Of course, he couldn’t help but be attracted to the man. Mysterious as he was, he had also seemed so young, and so shy, and the way that his cheeks had flushed when John had complimented his intelligence on the bridge… 

He was absolutely stunning, as well. The sunlight had caught his hair on the bridge at just the angle that made it light up, highlighting the red flecks woven throughout the mess of curls. Those same curls appeared so soft, and John had to resist the urge on multiple occasions just to run a hand through it, weaving through those silky strands. 

His long fingers, as well. They looked like those of a pianist, graceful and arching, with a delicate appearance as if they were spun from glass. 

But his eyes. 

John felt like a teenaged girl, swooning over those eyes. 

Taking a deep breath, John scrunched his eyes shut, rubbing them a little before opening them and tentatively peering out from under the bedding. 

He was across the room from the balcony, where the curtains were billowing out in the breeze, letting in the sunshine from outside. Despite this light, the room was still fairly cool, cold even. It felt odd to be trying to sleep during the day, but in his Army days he would have gotten sleep wherever it was possible. 

Furthermore, everyone else seemed to be sleeping. Greg was snoring next to him — heavy inward breaths and stuttering exhales that added to the orchestra of other sleep noises in the room. 

The mattresses were all packed in like sardines, people sleeping close in next to one another. The girl that Greg had addressed as Molls was curled in on herself, further across in the room, next to another anthropomorphic frog, which, almost like a cartoon, had a disgusting snot bubble that expanded and deflated with his every breath. 

Far away, the sound of the train clacking across the tracks could be heard, and a periodic horn could also be made out. John wondered if perhaps the train was his ticket out of here. He could get on it, and… and go where? He had no idea where he was. 

Even if he did manage to get on the train, what’s to say that it went anywhere that he would at all recognise? 

He really was fighting a losing battle. 

Suddenly, there was the sound of another curtain rustling, and John realised that it was the curtain into the room. 

Quickly, he tucked himself back under the blanket, curling in next to Greg. For all he knew, it could be a supervisor of some sort, come to check in on them. 

He scrunched his eyes shut, and held his breath in the hope that whoever it was didn’t notice that he was still awake. Listening hard, he could just make out the sound of bare feet carefully, silently stepping between the people, over the top of the mattresses. 

To his dismay, it seemed like whoever it was was heading in his direction, and he burrowed further down. However, to his surprise, a soft, large hand was laid over where his cheek was covered by the blankets, and a deep, recognisable baritone whispered to him. 

_‘Meet me at the bridge,’_ Sherlock said, then his hand was gone, and so had he — darting back across the mattresses to sweep quietly through the curtains. 

John sat up, in surprise, looking after where the curtains were swinging shut again behind Sherlock. 

Greg hummed next to him, ‘Go back to sleep, John.’ 

‘Oh, sorry Greg,’ John hissed back, lying back down. 

Should he go and meet Sherlock? Perhaps he shouldn’t, particularly after the way that Sherlock had treated him in the lift and with Moriarty. 

Then again, perhaps he should. He had the distinct feeling that Sherlock may just be his ticket out of here. It was quite the conflict. 

Though, he couldn’t deny the slight excitement to see the other man again. He couldn’t deny not only his attraction to Sherlock, but his attraction to this whole situation in the first place. No matter how much pain it had caused him, no matter how confused and overwhelmed he was, he couldn’t deny the fact that there was a great deal of danger, and being the person he was, he knew he was rather attracted to that danger. There was excitement to be had, here, the promise of blood pumping action and, for lack of a better term, adventure. 

His mind made up, John quickly sat up in bed, and quietly pushed his blankets down so that he could get to his feet as quietly as he possible could. Quickly, he dusted off his uniform, and then crept across the piles of people and mattresses as carefully as he could. 

Hoping to any god that could hear him that he wouldn’t step on anyone’s extremities, he stepped carefully over to the curtain, then quietly pushed it aside, and snuck out. 

He could roughly remember how to get back down to Mrs Hudson’s boiler room, so he did so, quietly padding down the hallway towards the marble steps he had seen before. 

Around a corner, then past the set of pillars, and he could see the staircase up ahead. The stairs were small, and narrow, clearly meant for servants, as they were far removed from the ones that could be seen in the rest of the bathhouse. 

He stepped down, clinging carefully to the handrail, and then around yet another corner. Up ahead, he could again see the kitchens that they had walked past at first. 

This time, as he walked past, he could see that nothing was lit in the kitchens, unlike last time. The large room was bare of anyone, person or frog, and there were no delicious smells wafting from the area, just the musty smell of old rice. 

As quickly as he could, John moved past, heading towards the curtain that he had first come through with Greg. It was a simple matter to slide inside, and he first spotted Mrs Hudson on the far side of the room, curled up in her purple dress and covered by what looked like a hand-made blanket. Her long arms were neatly folded around and on top of her blanket, and she was making soft snuffling sounds in her sleep. 

John turned away from her, and peered down at the floor, looking for his shoes. 

That was when the soot balls woke up, their tiny white eyes peering out at him from inside their little mouse holes. Confused, John scratched his head, rubbing an arm unconsciously. 

‘Can… can I have my shoes back, please?’ he addressed the soot, unsure as to whether they would actually understand him.

To his immense shock, they actually did seem to understand, spilling out their holes, and tugging with him the simple, brown loafers that he had worn when he came here. 

The soot balls tugged them over to where he was standing, placing them right in front of his feet. It made it extremely easy to just step into them, then quickly do up the laces. 

Nodding his thanks, John moved past the soot balls, who squeaked at him as he pushed past the iron door, then out through the wooden door. 

In the light of day, the staircase looked much less daunting, but the chasm was still as deep and hard as it was before. Carefully, he made his way up to the start of the wooden steps, then continuing on, trying his best to keep his balance. It was quite the effort — this staircase felt rickety, and seemed to waver in strong breezes. There were a few moments, on the way up, when John felt like he was about to fall, but thank God, he didn’t, maintaining his balance all the way up. 

Clambering over where the seventh step had broken, he finally made it all the way to the top, and for a moment, he had to appreciate the view. The chasm leant the place a sort of gravitas, but he could also see, far off in the distance, the heavy, grey weight of clouds on the horizon. It looked like quite the storm was headed their way, and John could only hope that he was back inside the bath-house with Greg when it hit. 

The gate easily swung open under his hand, and John finally managed to step out into the main garden. Stepping past the spot that he had hidden with Sherlock the evening previous, he made it over to the bridge. 

The town and the bridge were completely bereft of any signs of life, aside from Sherlock, who he could see on the bridge. The other man was standing with his hands in his pockets, his blue scarf wrapped around his neck neatly. His gaze was cast towards the sky, regarding it with what could only be described as an almost analytical look. 

‘Sherlock!’ John’s voice echoed over the quiet bridge, catching the other man’s attention, and causing him to look over to where John was heading towards him. 

Sherlock smiled, his eyes and demeanour friendly once more, so far removed from the icy facade he had presented last night. It was quite the relief, and John had to resist the urge to let out a sigh of thankfulness. 

‘John,’ Sherlock returned, nodding his head at the other man. 

John drew up beside him, glancing over the side of the stone bridge before returning his gaze to the other man. 

‘So,’ he began, ‘why did you want me to come out here?’ 

‘I thought I should take you to see your sister.’ 

John grinned, happily. ‘Thanks, Sherlock. That’d really mean a lot to me.’ 

‘Well,’ Sherlock replied, slightly haughtily, ‘it’s not that much of a task for me, and I was hoping to collect some samples from the pigs in an effort to see if I could tell what they had eaten and where that got them turned into pigs in the first place. My theory is that spirit food leaves some sort of measurable residue on the pigs.’ 

‘Ah,’ grinned John, ‘interesting. You can’t experiment on them, though.’ 

Sherlock looked at him, something in his gaze that John couldn’t quite read, but if he had to guess, it was annoyance. ‘And why not?’ 

‘Because, they’re living things.’ 

‘You are right. I do prefer to experiment on dead things. Much less irritatingly… alive.’ 

John let out a laugh at that, and Sherlock looked at him, surprise and more than a little shy pleasure on his face. John made even more of an effort to grin at the other man, then. 

‘Come along, John,’ Sherlock said, looking away, his cheeks flushing, ‘it’s this way.’ 

‘Right-o,’ replied John, following in Sherlock’s wake, as his large, black coat billowed out behind him. 

They moved through another alley, and then out into a field of flowers, towards a set of low, red brick buildings with arched, wooden roofs. The scent of the warm flowers filled John’s nose, as he followed after Sherlock. Sherlock was moving quite quickly, past the flowers and towards the nearest of the low buildings. 

Stopping out in front of the building, John watched as Sherlock got to his knees, pulling a little leather packet out of his coat. 

‘What are you doing?’ John yelped, as he saw Sherlock pull a thin instrument out, and prod at the lock. 

‘I’m picking it, isn’t that obvious?’ Sherlock replied, his tone haughty. 

‘Well, yes, but…’ 

‘But what, John?’ 

‘Won’t you get in trouble for doing that?’ 

‘No,’ said Sherlock, ‘Moriarty tends to show a blind eye to my experimentation. I think he encourages it sometimes.’ 

‘Yeah, about that,’ John started, ‘what was that last night? Why did you ignore me?’ 

Sherlock ignored him, as, with a click, the door of the barn opened up, and swung open. 

The scent of the interior of the barn drifted out, filling John’s nose uncomfortably. It was the scent of animals and faeces, rubbish and rotten food. John nearly retched in horror. 

‘Why does it smell so foul?!’ demanded John. 

‘It’s a pigsty, John,’ retorted Sherlock. John had to grin at that, but regretted taking his hand away from his face and nose almost immediately. Sherlock huffed, then pulled John inside by the hand, pointing to one of the main cages, where a large pig was lying on its side, emitting low grunting noises. 

‘That’s your sister,’ Sherlock said, pointing. ‘You have to remember what she looks like. Hopefully your tiny brain can manage that.’ 

‘Hey!’ said John, outraged, ‘my brain isn’t tiny!’ 

‘Oh, don’t take it as an insult, compared to mine it is.’ 

‘Shut up, Mr Smarty Pants,’ John retorted, grinning, ‘and actually, your brain is proportional to your body size. So someone larger than you will have a bigger brain than you will.’ 

‘But that doesn’t mean to say that you do, you’re a tiny human!’ Sherlock shot back. 

‘Har har, very funny,’ replied John, looking back over at the pig. ‘So this one is my sister? You’re certain.’ 

Sherlock didn’t reply, just looked at him like he had just dribbled down his own shirt. John huffed out a sigh, but turned, and peered at the pig again. 

At first glance, it just looked like a normal, run of the mill pig, but John could see that it had a smattering of freckles across its nose, and its tail was curled in precisely three ringlets. It also had a chip on its back hoof, one that looked like where Harry’s own nail had been chipped when she hit her hand against the bar. 

John filed away those tiny details, in the hopes that they would mean he could recognise the pig later on. 

‘Memorised it yet?’ demanded Sherlock. 

John turned and nodded at him. ‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘I think I’ve got it.’ 

‘Good,’ replied Sherlock. 

There was a beat of silence. 

‘Sherlock,’ asked John, ‘do you think she can hear me?’ 

‘She’s a pig, John,’ said Sherlock. John pursed his lips. 

‘I’m going to try anyway.’ Stepping up to the gate he leaned over and tried to get a good look at the pig, before speaking loudly. ‘Harry? Harry, can you hear me in there?’ 

No response. 

‘Please, Harry, just wake up, listen to me! I’m going to get you out of here, I promise, and then we can go back to…back to… back…’ 

John realised with a sudden start that he couldn’t remember where they had come from. He had come from… 

Where was he from? 

Letting out a low cry, John turned and sprinted past Sherlock, back out into the fresh air of the field. 

‘John!’ Sherlock was calling after him, but all John could do was run, and run fast. 

He had forgotten where he was from! He had no idea… where did he belong? Where was his home? Why couldn’t he remember? 

Suddenly, John recalled what Greg had said. About how he had forgotten where he was from as well, how he couldn’t recall the person that he had described as magnificent, someone he loved and wanted to get back to at all costs, and he couldn’t remember him.

Was that same thing happening to him? 

Was it just like how he had been disappearing before, now they were taking his memories, as well?

‘John!’ Sherlock’s voice was louder now, and John realised that he had tripped, and was lying in the field, amongst a patch of pretty yellow flowers shaped like tiny bells. ‘John, you need to calm down.’ 

‘How?!’ demanded John, ‘I can’t even remember where I’m from! i can’t remember my home! I don’t know… why is this… please…’ 

‘John, you’re having a panic attack,’ Sherlock said, tugging John towards him and rubbing his arm soothingly, comfortingly, like one would do for an old relative who had gotten himself a bit confused. ‘I know it’s a bit scary, but I think that is how Moriarty is controlling everyone. He makes you forget where you’re from, where you feel most at home. So you have nowhere to go but the bath-house. 

‘I can’t remember where I’m from either,’ said Sherlock, sadly, ‘I don’t know where I’m from, and I can’t go back there. No matter how hard I’ve tried to remember, I cannot for the life of me recall where it is that I felt most at home.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ said John, realising that he did actually feel sorry for the other man. 

‘I know where you’re from,’ Sherlock murmured, after a moment. ‘You’re from London.’ 

London. London. The name rang a bell, and John finally remembered. He remembered the cold streets, and the busy roads, and black cabs, and he could remember the Tesco down the road from his bedsit, and finally, he could recall the exact smell of the city, the smoke from cigarettes, the car exhaust and musty, damp smell of old rain. 

‘Here,’ Sherlock said, thrusting a pile of clothes at John. At the top was his oatmeal jumper. ‘I have your old clothes. You’ll need them when you want to go home. Keep them safe.’ 

‘Thanks, Sherlock,’ John murmured, sitting up next to the other man. Sherlock smiled, and squeezed his hand where they were still woven together.‘Ah!’ John just remembered that he had a train ticket stub in his pocket from where he had caught the Underground to meet Harry. He pulled it out, and saw, emblazoned across the top; _Transport for London._

‘That will be helpful for you,’ Sherlock said, ‘it’s good for you to have something that tells you where you’re from.’ 

‘I’m sorry you’ve forgotten,’ John sympathised, squeezing his hand back. ‘I wish I could help you.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock shrugged. 

There was a few moments of silence. John looked out over the landscape, realising that they were on the other side of the chasm. For the first time, he could see that it wasn’t just a chasm between the bath-house and the town, but that the bath-house seemed to be on a sort of mountain, same with the town, and that everything else was below it, in what he had thought was the chasm, before. 

Far off, he could see the river, sparkling in the sunlight, weaving across the plains of grass. 

‘Where’s the place that I can get back to human world?’ John asked, realising that he didn’t know where it was anymore. 

‘It only comes here on a full moon. You’ll have to wait for a month, and then on the next full moon, the river will dry up, and you can just go back the way you came.’ There was some sort of sadness in Sherlock’s tone. 

‘What’s wrong?’ John asked, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock shook his head, pulling his hand free. ‘Nothing,’ he insisted, gracefully unfolding himself and getting to his feet, looking back at John. ‘Hungry?’ 

‘Starving,’ replied John, grinning. He got to his feet beside Sherlock. ‘We aren’t going to eat someplace that will turn me into a pig, are we?’ 

‘Don’t be stupid, John,’ Sherlock retorted, walking back over towards the town. ‘I know a spot that does food that won’t turn you into a pig.’ 

‘Well, you never know. You might want me for an experimental… victim.’ 

Sherlock looked at him with reproach. ‘You’d be a terrible experimental specimen. You’re too small.’ 

‘Hey!’ John retorted, ‘I’d like to put it out there that I’d be a great specimen!’ 

Of course, that was the moment that he realised it probably wasn’t such a great idea to espouse to Sherlock his fitness as a specimen. Sherlock was suddenly looking at him with great interest, his eyes narrowed. 

‘That is true,’ he said, advancing on John, who quickly began to backpedal. ‘I haven’t done extensive tests on human subjects. My brother called it _cruel.’_

‘There… there is a reason for that, Sherlock!’ John protested. Sherlock looked at him, reproachful and unhappy. 

‘You were the one who just told me that you’d be a great specimen…’ John bit his lip. That was true. 

‘Well, just because I’d be great at it doesn’t mean you should test that theory.’ 

‘And you are now discouraging the pursuit of science.’ 

John simply had to laugh at that. ‘You live in a world of spirits and magic, Sherlock. I wouldn’t think science played a large part in that.’ 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘You would be surprised, John. Magic is an exact science.’ 

‘Really?’ John asked, sceptical. 

‘Yes!’ insisted Sherlock, ‘just because it cannot be pinpointed does not mean it isn’t there.’ 

‘Sure,’ John commented, suddenly finding it odd that, as a human, he was the one supporting the idea that magic couldn’t be quantified and was illogical. Shouldn’t he be the one insisting that it could be quantified, for his own peace of mind? 

Sherlock was peering at him, suspiciously. 

‘You have taken this whole thing rather well, I must admit.’ His tone was almost grudging, as if he was surprised by John’s reaction to the whole affair. To be fair, _John_ was shocked by John’s reaction to the whole affair. 

He didn’t really feel as out of place anymore. For some reason, he felt like he did belong, somehow. That he wasn’t completely out of place, a fish out of water. 

It was odd. 

Almost like Sherlock had worked some sort of magic, making him feel more at home. Which wasn’t disturbing in the slightest. 

‘Come along, John. The food is this way.’ Sherlock had begun to tug on his sleeve again, and they were once more headed back towards the town. 

The cobbled streets looked just the same as they had the day previous, completely bare and seemingly uninhabited, no one around as far as the eye could see, aside from himself and Sherlock. 

The sun was sitting high in the sky, and if John had to take a guess, he would call it early afternoon. 

‘Hurry up, John,’ Sherlock called, tugging even more insistently. 

‘Yeah, I’m coming,’ replied John, following easily after Sherlock, who had turned down a side alley and was headed towards a small, green, wooden door. It had a wooden sign hanging over the top, proclaiming itself to be ‘Angelo’s Fine Italian.’ 

It almost looked like the Italian around the corner from John’s bedsit back in… back… 

John had to take a deep breath to calm himself, and pull the ticket stub from his pocket. 

London. Back in London. 

Sherlock was standing up ahead of him, holding the door open for him to walk through behind the other man. 

The interior of the establishment was neat, and cosy, fires lit up in sconces on the back wall, flushing the room with a friendly midday feeling. Sunlight was allowed in the windows out the front of the place, diffusing over low, wooden tables with rickety, old, wooden chairs around each. 

‘Sherlock!’ 

A loud, booming voice called out his companion’s name from behind the bar running along the left wall of the room. ‘How are you?’ 

‘Fine, thank you, Angelo,’ replied Sherlock. 

John turned to look at whoever it was Sherlock had addressed as Angelo, and saw that it was a large, pot bellied tiger, standing on its back legs, and wearing an apron. Angelo was teetering towards them, oddly graceful as he manoeuvred between the tables to reach out a paw and shake Sherlock’s proffered one. 

‘This is my … this is John,’ Sherlock said, gesturing at John. John grinned at the tiger, somehow having become more accustomed to the odd creatures that inhabited this corner of the earth. 

‘Hello, John,’ Angelo greeted, delighted, ‘anything for you. Anything for either of you, on the house!’

‘Thanks,’ John replied, nodding his thanks. 

‘This man helped me out in tough times, you know!’ Angelo espoused, ‘Sherlock here told me that instead of trying to cater to all the bathing spirits, I should try do something for the poor fellows working up at the bath house instead. Try give ‘em a bit of variation hey?’ 

‘Well … that’s … nice of him.’ 

John looked over at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow as if to silently say; _There. Knew you could be nice._

Sherlock didn’t respond to John’s gaze, just looking away shyly, a flush colouring his cheeks. 

‘Oh, Sherlock,’ interrupted Angelo, ‘I have that cane you told me to hold onto yesterday.’ 

Again, quite nimbly, he leapt over to the bar, and pulled out from behind it… 

Pulled out John’s cane. 

John gazed at it, in shock, as Angelo handed it over to Sherlock, who promptly gave it to John. It sat in his hand, cold and heavy, and John stared at in, in absolute surprise. 

‘How…’ he stuttered, ‘what…’ 

‘You forgot it, yesterday. When you were running back to your sister. You left it on the bridge,’ said Sherlock. ‘Wondered if you’d noticed.’ 

‘I… no…’ mumbled John, ‘I didn’t even notice I wasn’t walking… I don’t feel any pain!’ 

‘Well, you haven’t shown any signs of limping at all today. In fact, you haven’t since you ran back to find Harry after the bridge.’ 

‘Amazing,’ whispered John, not resisting the urge to test out his leg, leaning his full weight on it, astonished by the fact that it held his weight perfectly, not trembling in the slightest. 

‘There, see, I told you.’ 

‘Told me what?’ questioned John. 

‘I told you it was psychosomatic.’ 

John didn’t have a reply for that, just gazing at the other man. Sherlock returned the gaze, slightly curious, and (John didn’t think he was imagining it) with more than a little heat. 

It may have just been a little wish fulfilment, but John truly couldn’t help himself. The man standing across from his was marvellous, absolutely stunning in every way, and today had just cemented that for him. 

John grinned up at the other man, and Sherlock immediately flushed, licking his lip and looking away, shyly. 

Angelo was looking between them, sharply, and winked at Sherlock before turning away, and gesturing to a nearby table set for two people at right angles on the table. 

‘Best table in the house for my favourite customer, Sherlock!’ he said, delightedly showing them to their seats, and almost magically producing a candle to lay down on the table. Sherlock didn’t say anything, just pushing a menu towards John. 

John peered down at the list of food. Everything looked absolutely delicious — he didn’t quite know where to start. 

‘The ravioli looks good,’ he said, after a moment of indecision. Angelo nodded. 

‘Excellent choice, Mr John,’ he said, gathering the menu from John. Sherlock looked up. 

‘I shall just have tea, thank you, Angelo,’ said Sherlock. John looked at him, sharply. 

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ 

Sherlock just shrugged. ‘I do not require food particularly often.’ 

‘You don’t starve yourself, do you? Or is it just a spirit thing?’ 

Looking almost offended, Sherlock replied with a haughty air; ‘It is just transport, John. My body does not have any effect on the workings of my mind.’ 

‘That’s bullshit,’ retorted John. Sherlock looked at him, shocked. ‘What if your body keels over and dies from starvation and dehydration? I can name at least five ways that can occur, and none of them are pretty. As a doctor, I can’t say it’s good.’ 

‘Yes, well, you’re a human doctor,’ Sherlock shot back. John grinned. 

‘That’s right,’ he replied, ‘but from what I’ve seen, you lot bleed just like a human does, so I suspect you work in the same way, too. You eat food, I can tell that much. Greg does, at least.’ 

There was a beat of silence, and John leaned forwards on the table, resting his chin on his hands. 

‘So,’ he said, after a moment, ‘you must know something about that.’ 

‘About what?’ questioned Sherlock, but held up a finger before he could reply, ‘Ah. About Lestrade, and the plague of the man he has forgotten?’ 

‘Yeah, that,’ nodded John. ‘He seems so sad about it.’ 

‘Lestrade is… I do not know.’ A brief look of confusion crossed Sherlock’s face. ‘I have… I think I have known Lestrade for a very long time. Long before he came to the bath-house, I believe.’ 

‘Then… then you know where he’s from!’ said John, excited now. ‘Maybe you even know who it is that he’s missing!’ 

‘I… no.’ Again, Sherlock looked confused. ‘I cannot remember.’ 

Sherlock looked… sad. John was confused. 

Something had happened. Clearly, in the past, something had happened. Something to do with Greg’s mysterious man, and Sherlock, and Greg himself. John would also bet his life that it had something to do with the shadow that seemed to loom over the bath-house. The slimy git, Moriarty. 

John could still recall his dead eyes, and the nasty way his lips curled in that smile, as if he knew all your secrets, all the deep-held, embarrassing ones. 

Not just that, though. It was as if he knew all their weaknesses, as well. All the things John had been running from, all is life. Those things that actually scared him, the ones that would send him hiding under the bed like a scared cat. 

Shuddering at the memory, John ducked his head, looking away from Sherlock. 

Sherlock himself was still looking straight at John, but his eyes were glazed over. His hands were steepled under his chin, long fingers pressing up against the soft flesh under his jaw. Looking up again, John caught his gaze full on, yet knew that Sherlock wasn’t actually looking at him. 

‘Sherlock?’ He tried to catch the young genius’ attention, but Sherlock seemed completely unresponsive. 

John waved a hand in front of his face, when Sherlock suddenly took in a breath through his nose, and shook his head, blinking a few times. 

‘Where’d you go?’ John asked, grinning at the other man. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. 

‘My Mind Palace.’ 

‘Mind Palace?’ 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. When seeing the blank look on John’s face, he elaborated a little further. ‘The Mind Palace is a memory technique. You imagine a place, a house or a forest, or, in my case, a palace. I store information there, in rooms and in paintings and such.’ 

John knew his eyes were wide as Sherlock explained. 

‘That’s incredible!’ he exclaimed, enjoying the flush that it elicited in Sherlock, watching the red suffuse his cheeks with a bright glow. 

‘Do you know that you do that out loud?’ he asked. 

‘Sorry,’ John looked away, ‘I’ll shut up.’ 

‘No …’ said Sherlock hesitantly, ‘It’s fine.’ 

‘So,’ John said, after a moment, ‘can you really not remember where you’re from? Nothing at all? Not even your family?’ 

‘I remember that I have a brother.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

‘Yes. Odious creature. Mycroft is the most powerful spirit. He runs the Godworld. And the human world, when he’s not too busy. He enjoys cake.’ 

‘He sounds…’ 

‘Carcinogenic? Irritating? Pointless? Stupid?’ 

John snorted into his hand at Sherlock’s blustering. It was oddly younger-brother-ish. Sherlock looked madly offended at John’s snort, and looked away again. 

‘No, Sherlock, I’m not laughing at you,’ John placated. Sherlock looked back, seemingly mollified. ‘Where does he live?’ 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Don’t care.’ 

‘Don’t give me that, Sherlock,’ John grinned, ‘I’m sure you do care. He is your older brother, after all. I know that I would care for Harry no matter what. Even though she can drink everyone under the table — not something to be exactly proud of.’ 

‘Yes, well, we aren’t all idiots, are we? Again, don’t take it personally, compared to me you are an idiot.’ 

‘Right charmer, you are,’ John retorted, smiling again. He had no idea why he was, but this abrasive arsehole of a man was nevertheless incredible, a complete marvel, and John would compliment him until the day he died. 

It only added to the oddest sensation that he had that he somehow knew Sherlock. That somehow he had encountered the man before, sometime long ago. It was a sense that hit him every so often. Sherlock would jut glance at him, out of the corner of his eye, or grab him by the hand, or squeeze his shoulder, or say something in that mesmerising baritone of his, and John would get the oddest sensation of remembrance. 

‘Here you are, Mr John. Best ravioli for you.’ 

***

‘Thank you, Sherlock,’ John said, as they wandered back towards the bridge. Sherlock and he had laughed, and chatted their way through a little more of the afternoon, and John found that finally, finally he was sleepy, ready to go to sleep. 

He felt more than a little trepidation at the night that was to come. Greg hadn’t even told him the slightest hint of what was to come, and what duties he was expected to perform, but from what he had seen, he had to guess that it was going to at least be quite difficult. 

Strangely enough, he felt no fear at the difficulty of the tasks, sure that he would be able to handle them. It was more the mystery of it that set John’s stomach aflutter, and he had to admit, it wasn’t an altogether awful sensation. 

Sherlock just nodded, next to him, squeezing his hand before reluctantly letting go. John saw that the other man was about to turn and go, so he reached out and caught the man’s coat. It forced Sherlock to turn back to him, raising an eyebrow. 

‘What is it, John?’ he asked, honestly curious. 

‘Well, I was just wondering…’ John stammered, feeling like a schoolgirl, ‘will I see you again?’ 

‘You want to?’ Sherlock asked, honestly astonished. 

‘Well yes,’ replied John, frowning, ‘of course I do. I enjoyed being with you, Sherlock. I think you’re incredible, and I can’t wait to hear more about all the spirits you’ve deduced, and maybe even some more about those bees of yours.’ 

‘You really think that, don’t you?’ Sherlock wondered, honest amazement in his voice, as again, the flush pinked his cheeks. 

‘Sherlock,’ John said, catching Sherlock’s attention, ‘I like you.’ 

Sherlock’s thoughts seemed to entirely stop with that, and he gazed at John for a moment, in honest amazement. 

‘Why, John?’ he asked, not seemingly addressing the question to John, himself. 

‘I thought I just told you, Sherlock. I like you.’ 

‘But… You don’t understand. No one likes me. I’m rude, and abrasive, and people dislike it when I tell them about themselves.’ 

‘I don’t,’ John said, simply. ‘I like it, Sherlock, and I like you.’ 

‘Well… I…’ 

Sherlock seemed entirely unsure as to what exactly he should say. John reached out a hand, again, and snagged Sherlock’s long fingers in his own, giving them a comforting squeeze. 

‘I’ll let you think about it, okay? You know where to find me, of course.’ And then, with another comforting squeeze, John turned, and walked across the bridge. Sherlock didn’t say anything, at all, behind him.

Suddenly doubting himself, John turned, trying to look back at where Sherlock was standing, but there wasn’t anyone there. The other man had just… gone. Vanished, somehow, almost seemingly into thin air. 

That was, of course, before he caught sight of it. 

Up above, high in the blue dome of the sky, John watched as a thin slip of black twisted through the air, looking like a ribbon floating on thin air. 

Squinting, John tried to make out what exactly it was that was up there, and only just made out the shape of a long snout, and glowing, blue-grey-green eyes, as well as the reflection of light off scales. The whip of a long tail, and the dangerous flicker of claws through the air, and John realised that Sherlock was a _dragon._

An incredible, beautiful, mesmerising dragon as amazing as the man himself, twisting through the brilliant blue sky. 

John watched, hypnotised by the shape of the dragon twisting through the air, until he couldn’t see it any longer, blending into the sky until it was gone. 

He remained standing there, though, in the hope that perhaps Sherlock would turn back from wherever he was going, and allow John to catch an intoxicating glance once more, but no luck. In fact, he probably would have stayed standing there for the next hour, if the crack of thunder right behind him didn’t make him jump, and turn. 

The thunderclouds he had seen earlier were nearing him, now, nearly entirely over the bath-house, and John could see that they were about to break, lightning shooting through the lower layers, and fat raindrops already beginning to form. The air was suddenly filled with the scent and taste of iron, and the calm before a storm. 

John turned, reluctantly, away from where he had last seen Sherlock, and sending a final prayer to the heavens to keep his dragon safe, he began to jog back to the stairs to the boiler room. 

***

Nearly as soon as he got back to the boiler room, Mrs Hudson still snoring away, he felt dead on his feet. Exhausted, he realised, because he had nearly been awake a full twenty-four hours, not counting the fact that he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before last due to his nightmares of guns and dead soldier’s eyes. 

There was a small rug near to the curtains on the other side of the boiler room, right by Mrs Hudson’s bench, and John made straight for that, suddenly realising that he would probably not be able to make it back to the room — as tired as he was. 

The soot balls awoke, after a moment, buzzing and clicking, and making their way towards John. John yawned, peering down at them, suddenly remembering the clothes he had clenched tightly in his grip, and his shoes, still tucked on his feet. 

Quickly, he took them off, sliding the away from slightly swollen feet which he took a moment to massage. Stacking his clothes on top of the shoes, he peered suspiciously down at the tiny balls. 

‘Do you… Do you think you can take care of these for me?’ he asked, immediately regretting his decision. Surely they couldn’t understand him.

To his immense surprise, the soot balls squeaked, then gathered around the shoes and the clothes, then, as a team, lifted them, and returned to their holes. 

Soon, they had all vanished from the floor, and John felt like an idiot it he were to actually thank the empty room, so instead he just keeled over, and fell straight to sleep. 

***

At first, his dreams were completely silent. 

For that he was thankful. The last few months had been horrific, his dreams filled with nothing but gunfire, and his teammates lying around dead. 

Now, there was nothing there, and John couldn’t be happier. 

Of course, it couldn’t last. 

At one point, he had the hazy sensation that Mrs Hudson had tucked a blanket over him, to the soundtrack of a thousand lightning strikes outside, but then he sunk back into the world of dreams almost straight away. 

Now he was dreaming of Sherlock. 

More specifically, how he knew Sherlock. 

His body was tiny, a small child with bare feet in a great city that smelt of smoke and ash and the damp smell of wet paper. 

His feet, pounding over the pavement, lost and scared. More scared than he could believe. 

Then, there was the sensation of someone else. Another young boy, with curling black hair. 

Or perhaps it wasn’t a boy at all, but a dragon, long and thin, curling around him and not only smelling of the great city, but of something else entirely. Something that was almost warm, like food. 

And then John was falling. 

The dream was gone on the wind. 


	4. Chapter 4

John was rudely awoken by the hurried sounds of the other bath-house workers, the pitter-patter of rapidly moving feet propelling others around. The kitchens were emanating a delicious smell into the boiler room, and the hiss-crackle of pots accompanied John blinking his eyes open and looking around. Thunder and lightning was crackling outside, and the sound of rain pattering down on the roof, while not loud this far down, could still be made out. 

Already the soot balls were at work, buzzing about with excited energy, tugging and pulling big stones of coal towards the hissing boiler fire. 

‘Ah, good, you’re awake, dear,’ said Mrs Hudson, from where she was already working away at the bench, grinding and mixing up sweet-smelling herbs. ‘You’d better get upstairs and find Greg, dearie.’ 

‘Wha… what’s going on?’ asked John, rubbing sleep from his eyes, confused. 

‘The bath-house is opening in a hour, dear, the guests will all want to bathe soon. You must go help Greg clean the baths, or you will be turned into a pig by Moriarty.’ 

That got John’s attention, and he scrambled to his feet, pushing the blanket from his body and scrambling over to the curtains. 

‘Thanks, Mrs Hudson,’ he called out to the spider-like woman grinding away at the bench. 

She didn’t reply, just waving one of her limbs dismissively. John nodded, and swept through the curtains as hastily as he could, out into the lower kitchen corridor. The place was filled with warm-smelling steam, the scent of good food filling the air. John’s stomach was grumbling already, the food he had had with Sherlock already a distant memory. 

He sprinted past the kitchens, grinning at his newfound ability to do so without too much pain from his bad leg, and towards the staircase that he had come down earlier on in the day, jumping up the steps, and past a frog, who was balancing a tray of pastries.

‘Hey!’ called the frog, indignantly, when John almost spilled his rather impressive pile of egg-washed pastries to the floor, ‘watch where you’re going!’ 

‘So sorry,’ John called back, brushing past and up into the corridor proper. The corridor was filled with other dressed similarly to him, rushing about with rags and buckets of warm water. Others still were mopping the floors themselves. 

The young men and women clad scantily that he had seen last night were nowhere to be seen, but John could see some of the frog-cooks moving about with trays of food, handing them off to the other cleaners, who were quickly taking bites in the middle of what was clearly the preparations for the opening of the bath-house for the evening. 

John skated around the corner, heading straight for their room, the purple curtains hanging open.

Poking his head around, John could see that Greg was inside, carefully stacking away their mattresses and folding away their blankets. The balcony was now blocked off by a large, wooden and glass panel, the rain landing squarely on the glass and making it shudder in its frame. Outside, the sky was dark, almost black, and flashes of lightning and the roll of thunder could be seen and heard periodically. 

Greg turned, spotting John and grinning, before letting his mouth fall into a reproachful frown. 

‘Where did you go, John?’ he asked, ‘I couldn’t find you when I got up earlier.’ 

‘Sorry,’ replied John, gathering up his bedding from Greg’s arms, and following his lead in stuffing it into the baskets on the walls. He didn’t provide any explanation, and Greg raised an eyebrow at him, before just shrugging, and returning to what he had to do. 

‘Okay, sure,’ said the fox-spirit, ‘but we have to go help out scrubbing the floors in the dining halls on the second floor.’ 

John nodded his agreement, pushing he last of his blankets into the baskets, and then dusting off his hands, watching Greg expectantly. 

‘I have to say,’ Greg said, grinning, ‘you seem far more ready for this than I was on my first day here.’ 

‘What can I say?’ retorted John, ‘I’m more used to hard work than you are, mate.’ 

‘Hey!’ Greg protested,’ I work hard here!’ 

‘Sure, mate, scrubbing the feet of the privileged!’ Greg growled in mock-irritation, punching John lightly in the shoulder before pushing through the curtain, and grabbing one of the buckets, and three of the cleaning rags that had been stacked outside. 

‘Grab some of these, and a bucket, and let’s go,’ Greg prompted. John complied, copying Greg and grabbing a bucket and a few rags, before following in Greg’s wake. 

They headed to what John now knew was a staff elevator, a rickety old thing that Greg piloted up to the second floor, past the main floor of the baths, where John could peer out and see cleaners dressed just as Greg and he were, scrubbing out the empty baths. 

Some were filling up the clean baths with sweet smelling water, and further off still, John could see that some baths were already in use, customers sitting in gently steaming water, oft-accompanied by young men or women dressed rather scantily. Low laughter could be heard from these baths, and John frowned, seeing where one bath’s inhabitants were becoming rather… frisky with one another. 

‘Greg,’ asked John, after a moment, ‘is this… is the bath-house also… is it a brothel here, too?’ 

Greg didn’t reply, just remaining quiet, before sighing. 

‘Not officially,’ he replied, ‘but sometimes. I’ve asked Irene, she’s the one who is the head of the hosts, and she just laughed.’ 

‘It seems to me like there might be … something …’ 

‘John,’ Greg caught his attention, ‘we’re cleaners. We take care of the baths, cleaning them between customers and filling them with water. We aren’t the hosts. Don’t worry about it.’ 

‘Is that why you took me from that woman, the black-haired one who wanted me to go with her?’ 

‘That’s Irene,’ said Greg, ‘and yes, partly. You’re new here, and you don’t really seem like you would like that sort of thing. You seem like you would get angry if someone tried to … well.’ 

‘Thank you,’ John said, most sincerely. Greg didn’t say anything, just smiling gently and nodding, before letting the lift doors open to the second floor of the bath-house. 

Just like on the lower levels, there were cleaners buzzing about the place in their billowing, grey clothing. They sloshed buckets around, and younger men and women were dashing across the floors, running wet rags along the marble flooring and leaving behind a mirror-like shine. 

‘Over here!’ called a voice, and John turned, following Greg to see that the young woman he had seen this morning, the mousy one with brown hair, was calling them over to another room that was caked with dirt and the remnants of food. There was a large wooden table that had been pushed up against the wall, and low, cushioned stool-type chairs and lounges had been stacked on top of it. 

‘Hey Molly, how are you?’ Greg asked, nodding at the other cleaner before placing his bucket down on the floor, and putting his rags into it. 

‘Fine, thanks Greg. I’ve been assigned this room today.’ She gestured about the frankly disgusting room. ‘I think it was used by those food spirits that were here last night.’ 

‘Yeah, looks like that,’ grinned Greg, ‘you want John and I to help?’ 

‘That’d be great, thanks!’ Molly grinned, before turning and looking at John. ‘You’re the new one, aren’t you? The one that Moriarty only just brought under contract.’ 

‘Yeah, that’s me,’ replied John smiling at the other cleaner. She grinned in return. 

‘Welcome to the party. Come on, I think we’d better get started.’ John nodded, placing his bucket on the floor next to Greg’s. 

‘Don’t we need water?’ he questioned. Greg smiled. 

‘It’s all good, it’ll appear in a moment.’ 

John looked at him, confused, until Greg gestured at the buckets, and he turned, watching in amazement as the bucket began to fill with steaming, soapy water. 

‘Easy as that,’ Greg said, picking up his bucket, and grabbing one of the rags he had dumped inside earlier, squeezing out the excess water. Getting to his knees, he began to scrub away at the grime and dirt that had been worked into the floor. Over on the other side of the room, Molly was doing the same with her own bucket. ‘Well?’ prompted Greg, ‘don’t just stand there, mate, get to work!’ 

Pushed into action, John copied the other two, pulling out his own rag, and getting to his own knees to begin his scrubbing efforts. 

There seemed to be large quantities of food worked into the floor, everything from what looked like a whole tomato, to some brown substance that John wasn’t completely sure the identity of. 

‘So,’ said Molly, after a moment, ‘what do you think so far, John?’ 

John looked up at the sound of Molly’s voice, realising that she was talking to him, all the while rubbing away at her own patch of marble floor. She appeared to be working on a nasty purple stain. 

‘I…’ he stammered, ‘I don’t really know what to think honestly. I didn’t really expect for things to go this way.’ 

Molly giggled, lightly. ‘Fair enough,’ she replied. 

‘Aww, stop giving him a hard time, Molls,’ Greg said, from the other side of the room. ‘Didn’t you hear? He was kidnapped by Sherlock.’ 

‘Was not!’ John defended his friend, ‘in fact, Sherlock helped me!’ 

‘Sherlock helped you?’ yelped Molly, flushing a bright shade of red. ‘He just ignores me.’ 

‘You must be so depressed about that, Molls,’ Greg teased, from where he was scrubbing away at a suspiciously blue stain. 

‘Shut up, Greg,’ Molly shot back, ‘you’re bad enough, with your mysterious, magnificent man.’ 

‘Hey, that’s not fair!’ 

‘Then shut up about Sherlock!’ Molly was still blushing, and licking her lips nervously. 

‘He did,’ John insisted, ‘help me, that is. With my sister.’ 

‘Your sister?’ questioned Molly. 

‘Yeah,’ said John, ‘I came here accidentally from the human world, when my sister thought she smelt food down a suspicious old alley, and then here I came.’ 

‘Wow,’ Molly said, ‘you just wandered in? Really? That’s rather boring.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked John, working away at another patch, his knees beginning to ache.

‘Well, there’s been all these rumours going around about how you actually got in here.’ 

‘Rumours? What are they saying.’ 

‘Well, I heard that you got kidnapped by Sherlock, the little bugger, for one of his “experiments”,’ said Greg. 

‘And I heard that you managed to find your way in here, and you were looking to eat one of us!’ giggled Molly. 

John and Greg both laughed. 

‘That’s disgusting, Molls,’ said Greg. 

‘Yeah,’ said John, ‘although, I know that in the human world, there’s an entire country of people that’d love to eat your cooks.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Molly, her eyes wide. 

‘Yes,’ said John, nodding knowledgeably, and grinning at the same time, ‘they’re called French.’ 

‘Wow,’ Molly gaped. Behind John, Greg was stifling his laughter. 

‘I’m guessing you’ve never been to the human world.’ 

Molly shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve been here for longer than I can remember. Longer than Greg, even.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ empathised John. 

Molly just looked away. ‘Don’t, it’s fine. I honestly don’t know any different. Moriarty’s cruel, yeah, but he doesn’t usually come and bother us.’ 

She didn’t say anything, beyond that, returning to scrubbing away at her patch of the floor. John sensed that there was something more there, but didn’t want to push it. He got the impression that it wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. 

***

As soon as the floor in the dining room was done, Greg pulled John back out into the corridor, their buckets waiting just outside, filled up now with dirty water. Molly came out just behind John, smiling at them both. 

‘I’m emptying my bucket, do you want to do yours with me?’ she asked them both, moving towards the balcony at the end of the corridor of dining rooms. 

‘Yeah, coming,’ said Greg, ‘I haven’t been told which bath I’m on tonight.’ 

‘I’m on duty on Bath Three,’ Molly said, grinning. 

‘Lucky thing,’ Greg groused. ‘I just hope that I’m not on one of the big baths tonight.’ 

Outside, it was freezing cold, and rain was still pouring down. It was so heavy — John could swear that he had almost never seen anything like it before in his life. It was pouring down, leaving nearly nothing dry. Thankfully, the balcony was covered by a marble overhang, but still John got wet when he went to pour his bucket over. 

Distantly, after he did, he heard his water splash into more water. 

He was about to turn away when he heard it, but when he did, he turned back in surprise and more than a little confusion, looking out over the balcony and squinting through the dark in an attempt to see out. He couldn’t make out anything, but far off in the distance, he could see the tiny shape of the town, lit up by only a few lamps that were sparkling in the rain. 

It didn’t seem like the spirits there had the nerves to open up their restaurants during the torrential downpour. 

Then, John noticed something. Out on the balcony, standing on the edge, in the rain, was the spirit he had seen when he had crossed the bridge with Sherlock yesterday, when he had to hold his breath going across. 

‘Hello?’ he asked. It was staring at him, blankly, the mask completely expressionless. ‘Can I help you?’

Nothing. 

John shuffled, a little awkwardly, onto one foot, then the other. 

‘Would you… do you want me to just leave the curtain a little ajar for you, so you can come in from the rain? 

Still, nothing. 

‘Come on, John,’ Greg prompted, from behind the curtain. 

‘Oh, right, coming,’ John nodded, and after one final glance out at the other spirit, he walked back through the curtain, sliding one across slightly to allow the spirit to come inside if he wanted to. 

Behind him, a great crack of lightning shot across the sky, and the masked spirit moved towards the curtain. 

They walked back down the corridor towards the cleaners’ lifts, but just before they did, another man called them over, waving a hand to catch Greg’s attention. 

The other man was short, and stout, and was wearing a blue robe that folded around his almost rotund body. 

‘You’re on the big tub, Greg,’ said the man, who was clearly an administrator of some sort. 

‘Hey!’ protested Greg, ‘come on. That’s not fair, Chalmers.’ 

‘Yes, it is,’ said Chalmers, ‘you’ve got an assistant, now, haven’t you?’ 

Greg growled, but sighed, and nodded, turning to walk back towards the lifts again. John ran after the other man, raising an eyebrow. 

‘What does he mean “the big tub”?’ 

‘He means,’ growled Greg, ‘that we’re on the largest tub. You might have seen it on our way up here.’ 

‘Oh, right,’ replied John, remembering the simply enormous tub that he had seen when he had gone up to Moriarty’s. ‘Really? Won’t that take ages to clean?’

‘Exactly,’ snorted Greg, pulling on the lever inside the lift that sent them dropping down one level to the main bath-house floor. 

Outside the lift, the air was warm and muggy, scented with herbs that John had smelt earlier down in Mrs Hudson’s boiler room. More of the baths were in use, now, their dividing curtains slid closed around their inhabitants. Even the large, cooling-off pool was in use, a few rat-faced spirits and more masked spirits luxuriating in it, discussing things out loud, adding to the magnitude of sounds in the area. 

He saw a few of the …. companions? … exiting and entering the dividing curtains, their modesty coverings damper now. Suddenly, John was even more thankful for what Greg had done yesterday, as quite a few of them had red markings decorating their necks, and kiss marks on certain parts of their bodies. 

Further back, the larger baths were still dirty, other cleaners working their way through cleaning them more slowly than the smaller baths. The largest of the baths was standing in the middle at the end of the long room, behind a set of curtains, which Greg pushed aside to allow himself and John entrance. 

The curtains swung shut behind John, as he turned to survey what was frankly an enormous mess. There was mould scattered about the outside of the bath, and what looked like seaweed heaped in great piles around the floor, and up the beautifully painted marble wall on the other side of the round, marble tub that was taller than John himself. 

On the far wall, leaning against it were a series of mops, and what looked like a rake. Greg snatched up the rake, and a flat-headed mop, holding out the mop to John, who took it. 

‘We have to clean this up, hopefully no one wants to use it today. I’ll do the … weeds, and you scrub the inside of the tub.’ 

‘Sounds good to me,’ John said, before he realised one rather large problem. ‘Um, Greg?’ 

‘Yeah?’ asked the grey-haired man, already raking up the weeds from the floor into a large pile near the exit curtains, which he had pinned open. 

‘How do I get up to get inside the tub?’ 

Greg laughed out loud, leaning his mop up against a nearby wall. ‘Right, sorry, should have mentioned. Here.’ 

He gestured to a set of small hand and footholds carved into the side of the tub. ‘Usually this tub is reserved for the largest spirits, you know, the ocean and river spirits, even some of the larger earth spirits as well as the elephant and other large animal spirits. So they don’t really need help to get in. But I suppose you do, huh?’ 

John mock-frowned, punching Greg in the shoulder before tucking the flat-headed mop under his arm and doing his best to clamber up to the top of the tub, then inch his way down to the inside. 

Inside the tub, it was absolutely disgusting. 

The floor was slimy under his feet, and slippery. John almost fell, having to plant a hand on the wall of the tub to keep himself upright. Already inside the tub was a small measure of rather fetid water, so John waded over to the middle, where he had seen a small, black plug glinting under the water. Reaching down a hand, he plucked the plug from inside the tub, allowing the water to quickly drain out with a sucking noise, leaving the bottom of the tub disgusting and free of water. 

‘Ugh,’ he groaned at the smell. 

Greg’s laughter could be heard outside the tub. ‘I know your pain, mate,’ he called back, ‘this tub hasn’t been cleaned in years, I swear. Oh, that reminds me!’ 

A bucket full of water appeared over the top of the tub, and John went to grab it, accidentally spilling a little of it down his shirt. 

Grunting in annoyance, he brushed at it, a little, before dumping the bucket on the ground, and dipping his mop into the solution, before beginning to scrub away at the grime and muck that was layered, practically worked into the inside of the tub. 

‘Alright?!’ called Greg.

‘Fine,’ replied John, ‘just, it’s a big job, isn’t it?’ 

‘Well,’ retorted Greg, ‘it is the big tub!’ 

‘Har har,’ said John, grinning even though the other man couldn’t see him. 

***

It was a long, sweaty job, but eventually the outside of the tub and the floor was gleaming, but the inside of the tub … well, John had done his best, and that was what counted. There was still visible muck on the inside, though, and as John and Greg both wiped the sweat from their brow with a clean — well, not clean but not disgusting — patch on their uniforms, they regarded the inside with a critical eye. 

‘I couldn’t get all that out, Greg. It’s like it’s vacuum sealed on there.’ 

‘What’s a vacuum seal?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow. John waved his hand. 

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he replied. ‘What do we do?’ 

‘Um…’ hummed Greg, ‘Oh, I know, go get a token for a herbal heavy water from the foreman. The toady one, down in reception.’ 

‘Oh, right,’ nodded John. ‘Why?’ 

‘The herbal heavy water is really cloudy. Hopefully it’ll cover up the much that’s still inside the tub.’ 

‘Okay,’ said John, scrambling out of the tub after Greg, and heading for the curtain. 

Outside the little, stinky world of their own tub, the rest of the main bath-house floor was flush with activity. Nearly all the tubs were occupied, aside from the largest baths, and the long, cold pool in the middle had more than a few spirits occupying it. The most notable of them was what looked like some sort of huge, water-dwelling animal spirit, with a long, finned tail and nasty teeth poking out its massive jaw. 

Dodging around the pool, John headed for the curtain to the hallway for the workers. Inside there, the place was aflutter with movement, the cleaners dodging around frogs, who were carrying food place-to-place, trays piled high with delicious looking meals. 

Nearby, groups of giggling hosts stood on standby, waiting for new guests to come by, and John reasoned that they must be heading towards where the reception was, so he followed after them, out into the reception that he had seen last night. 

In the middle, at the high reception desk, the large frog was smiling at incoming guests, and handing off long, red bath tokens with symbols across them to the hosts, who were leading their guests out towards the main bath floor.

A group of rat spirits filtered past, the young blond that John had seen last night with them. 

The blond giggled upon seeing John, and winked, before moving off to lead the rat-spirits through a curtain John reasoned led out into the main bath floor. 

‘Have a nice bath,’ the frog said, jovially, handing another female host a bath token with three black lines across it. 

John stepped up to the counter, peering up at the frog. The frog barely spared him a glance, handing off another bath token. 

‘Excuse me,’ John tried. The frog glanced at him, but his attention was immediately taken by yet another guest. ‘Excuse me!’ John repeated, louder now. 

‘Yes?’ asked the frog, ‘what is it?’ 

‘I need a bath token, please,’ he requested, ‘one for a heavy herbal bath.’ 

‘Sorry,’ said the foreman, ‘I can’t spare it. We need the water for the guests.’ 

‘It is for the guests!’ retorted John. 

The foreman just shook his head. ‘You can’t know what bath the guests will want. You’re just a cleaner.’ 

‘Please,’ John asked, ‘Greg sent me, he says that the big bath needs it.’ 

‘Well, that’s just too bad,’ croaked the foreman. ‘Try again later. 

John grit his teeth in frustration, as the foreman turned to another host and guest. 

‘Have an excellent bath, sir,’ he said, handing out the tokens like they were candy, and yet he couldn’t spare John even one. 

John had to resist the urge to punch the frog in the face. 

That was when he noticed it. 

Just to the left of the foreman stood the masked spirit that he had let in earlier on the second floor, the one from the bridge. It’s childlike face mask was still smiling jovially, the eyes glazed over and false. 

It bowed its head to him, the first acknowledgement that John had received from it. John, confused, nodded his head in return, and then watched, in astonishment, as the spirit faded from view. 

‘Hey,’ said the foreman, catching his attention, ‘what are you looking at?’ 

‘Nothing,’ replied John, hastily, ‘absolutely nothing.’ 

He had no idea why he was lying for the spirit, but he did so. 

The foreman frowned, and was about to ask another question, when next to him, the phone rang. 

‘Hello?’ 

John couldn’t hear what it was the other person on the other end of the line said, but the foreman’s face darkened. 

‘Is it a human?’ he asked, briefly, looking away from John. 

Just as he turned his head away, a token with four black stripes lifted up out from behind the foreman’s desk, floating up into the air. 

‘HEY!’ the foreman said, outraged, trying to reach out and snatch it back from the air. 

It floated out of his reach, and down towards where John was standing. ‘Thanks!’ John said, grabbing it out of the air and sprinting away before the foreman could say anything else about it, back towards the curtain to the worker corridor. 

He dashed back up to the big bath, and through the curtain, where Greg was pushing the mops and the rake back into a far corner of the room, out of sight of any guests that might want to come and use the bath. 

‘Here,’ said John, ‘I think I have the token that you want.’ 

Greg held out a hand for it, inspecting it, before grinning. 

‘Hey, you got a pretty good one, well done,’ he congratulated, poking John in the arm before moving off back to the main wall. Reaching out a hand, the other man tugged open a panel in the wall that John hadn’t see before, and it opened up to what looked like a chute of some sort, a long string with a metal clip attached to the end hanging down out of it. ‘Here, see,’ Greg gestured, tugging the string and clipping the red token onto the end of it, ‘we just attach it like this, and then it gets sent down to Mrs Hudson, who sends us our water.’ 

‘Right,’ John nodded, watching as Greg gestured to where a spout was now falling down from the wall just above the panel, which Greg had shut just a moment before. A string fell from the end of the metal pipe. 

‘See that rope up there?’ Greg pointed, ‘Just go pull that, and get our water.’ 

John rushed to comply, quickly jumping up as fast as he could to the rim of the tub, balancing along the edge until he came to where the string was dangling down. 

With a sharp tug, the sound of rushing water came through the pipe, before boiling hot water began to shoot down into the tub, swirling around and steaming, covering up the grime and muck that was coating the interior of the tub. 

It smelt divine, a mix of lavender and some other scent that John couldn’t name, but had smelt before, down in Mrs Hudson’s boiler room. 

‘All good up there?’ called Greg, up to where John was standing. 

‘I think so,’ replied John, ‘it seems to be covering up the grime.’ 

‘That’s good,’ said Greg, ‘And I think that if we leave it there, and no one comes to use this bath, it might be a bit easier to later scrub off the inside of the tub and get the worse of the grime out. That stuff has been fermenting there for ages, I swear!’ 

John nodded, grasping the rope tightly in his left hand. 

‘You don’t need to hold onto it, mate,’ said Greg, ‘just give it another tug in a moment when the tub is completely full, okay?’ 

‘Alright,’ replied John, letting go of the string and balancing there on top of the tub. 

Greg rustled the curtains as he walked out. 

Waiting there, John watched carefully as the level of water in the tub rose, higher and higher, until it nearly touched the top, and then he gave the rope another quick tug. 

The flow of water gradually trickled to just a little drip, then stopped completely. Once it was done, the pipe that it had come out of slowly folded back up into the wall, dripping slightly. 

John peered back down into the tub, dipping a foot in to check the temperature, and squinted to see if he could make out any more of the grime and grease that he knew was lining the bottom of the tub, but he couldn’t see anything. 

Smiling in satisfaction, he turned to climb down, and was shocked to see that the spirit that he had seen before, in the reception, and who he also suspected was the one who had given him the token was standing just inside of the curtain, near to the bath. Confused, John frowned, climbing down from the tub with a huff, and dusting off his uniform, before peering at the spirit suspiciously. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, after a moment of awkward silence. ‘For before, I mean. It was you… wasn’t it? You were the one who gave me that bath token? Thanks for that, it was really helpful.’ 

The spirit didn’t say anything, just gliding closer to John.

John realised that the spirit was actually quite tall, towering well over him. Tipping his head back a little, as the spirit advanced on him, and taking a quick step back when it got too close, he raised an eyebrow. 

‘Do you.. do you need something?’ he questioned. 

_‘Ah, ah,’_ the spirit said. It didn’t seem like it could say anything beyond that, but John looked and saw that it was leaning forwards, offering its hands to him. 

Stacking in its hands were piles of tokens. It seemed like there was at least six there, all with different symbols etched into the wood, and shining under the flickering light of the flaming sconces on the wall. 

‘No, thank you,’ said John, holding up a hand to refuse the tokens. ‘I only needed one.’ 

_‘Ah, ah!’_ The spirit seemed more insistent this time, jangling the pieces out in front of him, so they shifted and tossed in the spirit’s grasp. 

‘No, honestly, thanks,’ repeated John, trying to smile placatingly, ‘I didn’t need any more. You should take those back.’ 

_‘Ah, ah?’_ A questioning tone was woven into the quiet speech of the spirit. _‘Ah, ah.’_

‘No, I don’t need it,’ insisted John, again, now using both hands to refuse the tokens that the spirit was offering. ‘I really don’t. Thank you for before, but I don’t need any more.’ 

_‘Ah…’_ With one final sighing sound, the spirit seemed to almost forlornly disappear, vanishing and melting away just like it had done before, in the reception. The tokens, however, didn’t disappear, landing on the floor with a hard thunk, and bouncing a little before coming to rest. 

Confused, John stooped to pick one up, realising that it was solid and real, unlike the spirit seemingly had been. 

John bit his lip, before bending and sweeping the tokens up from off the floor. The buckets were standing empty, over in one corner of the room next to the mops, so John went over and dumped the whole pile of tokens straight into the bucket, letting them clatter and roll around in the bottom. They seemed to all be slightly different, patterns and symbols across them in harsh, black paint. 

Briefly, John wondered what it was that they meant.

He was about to bend over and pick one out again to inspect it more, when there was the rush of feet outside the curtain, and the raised voices of the workers, moving towards the reception area. 

Confused, John poked his head out of the curtain, to see a general sense of chaos. Workers were emerging from behind their curtains, some even leaving their guests behind to either move towards the reception, or towards one of the balconies overhanging the main entrance to the bath-house. 

Curious, John pushed his way out of the curtain, and headed towards the balcony with a few of the frog cooks, and a scantily clad young brunet man with deeply tanned skin. He followed the others out onto a balcony that was just above and to the left of the main, grand entrance. 

To the chorus of shocked gasps, John pushed through the group to get to the front, poking his head out as far as he dared from the balcony cover as far as he dared, but not so far that he would get soaked, trying to catch a glimpse of what it was that had everyone so shocked. 

There was a flash of lightning overhead, which lit up the scene out the front of the bath-house nicely, allowing John to see through the foggy blackness of the rain, to where what looked like a great pile of slime was almost rolling towards the bath-house. A line of cleaners were standing out in the pouring rain, holding out brooms and damp, glowing torches in an effort to ward away the slime, but it seemed rather determined, rolling towards the bath-house almost with gusto. 

John leaned over a little further, and that was when the smell hit him. Despite the washing effect of the rain, and the scent of iron on the air from the lightning, the distinct scent of the slime permeated through the air, making his hair stand on end, and forcing him to clap a hand to his nose. 

Of course, that was the moment when a frog emerged behind him, and tapped him on the shoulder. 

‘John? John Watson?’ asked the frog, in a croaky old voice. 

John turned to see who it was who was addressing him, a short, rather squat individual with odd, purple-tinted, slimy-looking skin. ‘Yes?’ he asked, curious. 

‘Master Moriarty wants to see you,’ he replied, ‘He has asked you to go and greet our guest.’ 

‘Which one?’ asked John. 

‘That one,’ replied the frog, pointing one long, slightly slick finger to where the large ball of slime was rolling towards the bath-house, covered in grime. 

‘That’s a guest?!’ John yelped. The frog said nothing, and John realised that if it possibly could be raising an eyebrow, it likely would be. Turning on one spindly leg, it jump-walked away. 

Frowning, John followed after it, not looking forward to the slimy death that it looked like he was about to meet. 


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as he walked down to the reception, John felt a chill shudder up his spine. Moriarty was waiting there, in a deep blue suit, his lifeless eyes boring into John. He was wearing a nasty grin, his lips curled up in a predatory fashion that John was coming to expect from the slimy shadow of a man. John had to suppress a shiver at how that grin widened when he emerged from the workers’ corridor, into the reception. 

The slime monster could now fully be made out, approaching the bright lights of the bath-house. It seemed like the other cleaners, the ones who were trying to ward off the monster, had given up on their task, retreating to the warm, safe haven of the interior of the bath-house. Most likely, they had even scampered away to their bedrooms, tucking themselves away, and honestly, John couldn’t blame them. That’s what he wanted to do, anyway. 

Anything to get away from Moriarty’s slick grin, the one that made him want to curl up under his bed. 

Taking a deep breath, he fortified himself. He was a goddamn soldier in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. He was a soldier, and a doctor, and he could manage this. It didn’t matter how scared he felt deep inside, how out of control and uneasy he felt in this new environment, he could damn well manage it. 

‘Ah, Johnny-boy! How are you?’ asked Moriarty, almost jovially. John just nodded, gritting his teeth and taking another breath before speaking. 

‘You asked for me, _sir?’_ he replied, simply, raising an eyebrow. Moriarty threw back his head and laughed, before grinning falsetto at John, gesturing out at the slime monster that was now seeping between the marble pillars out the front, and towards the light of the main entrance like a moth to a flame. 

‘This is a stink spirit, Johnny-boy. And he needs a wash. You will take him to the main bath, and give him a good showing to, won’t you? Be a good boy for me?’ Moriarty’s tone was completely condescending, and filled with arrogant humour. John really, really wanted to clock the bastard in the face. 

‘Of course, _sir,’_ John replied, turning away from Moriarty to look at the ball of slime that had washed into the reception, bringing with it a foul stench that John actually felt bile rise for in the back of his throat. A nasty purple muck flowed over his feet, and over the rest of the marble flooring, towards the staff corridor and the beautiful, purple, red and gold curtain that blocked the main bath floor off from the reception. 

There was a general patter of feet as guests and workers alike leapt awake from the foul, toxic smelling stuff, but John had no choice except to let it wash over his feet, between his toes, and he shuddered at the feeling of squishiness under his heels. 

Not able to put it off anymore, John looked up into the face of the spirit, trying not to let the next overpowering wave of absolute stench floor him. It was quite the battle, but he managed to remain standing, peering into the face of the stink spirit. 

It was dark green in colour, and it was possessing of an almost liquid-y appearance, as if it would flow around inside a bowl, and yet, it was still solid. The kind of solid you would see in shit, of course, but no matter. 

John peered carefully at the stink spirit, realising it possessed what appeared to be a mouth, really just a great gash across its upper region, and two sunken slits of eyes. It looked almost sad, for some reason, to the point that it appeared like something out of a cartoon. 

It also seemed to possess arms of some sort, long, slimy appendages like tentacles, one of which it was now reaching out towards John. Confused, John peered at the appendage waving in front of his face. Behind him, Moriarty was a toxic presence, walking up behind John to practically whisper in his ear, and run one hand up his spine. 

This time, John actually did shudder, as his lilting voice whispered in his ear. ‘Go on then, Johnny-boy, take the nice customer’s money.’ 

With a shiver, John complied, holding out his hands cupped, allowing the spirit to drop what looked like solid drops of slime into his outstretched hands. John did briefly see a flash of gold, but it was quickly coated by the stink spirit’s copious slime. 

‘R… right this way… sir,’ said John, after a moment, turning to walk away, only to find that his legs were shaking under him, a clear reaction to the amount of stink washing over his tender nostrils. The stink spirit was clearly following after him, if the horrified gasps of the workers and guests was something to judge by. 

Carefully, John stumbled and robot-walked over to the grand curtains that led into the bath-house, pushing them to one side with his slime-filled hands, and then trying his best to walk around the cold pool, and towards where the large bath was waiting. 

Of course, it wasn’t without some casualties. 

As the stink spirit walked past, its slime tipped into the cool bath, flooding over the surface and sinking into it, forming a deep, sickly green cloud in the water which was quickly spreading through it. 

The guests had all huddled at the far end of it, and now were rapidly clambering out of it as fast as they possibly could, quite often without reaching for something to cover their modesty in the first place. 

Thankfully for his eyes, John was already preoccupied with trying to stay upright under the assault of the scent. 

There was no absolute way to describe it; it was worse than any farts he had smelt. Every time he smelt whatever it was that the stink spirit was releasing, it seemed to get worse. It was almost like a mixture of human faeces, grime of all sorts, dead bodies, petrol, and anything else you might find in a rather unattractive trash can. 

John retched, once more, as the spirit drew closer behind him, but he hid it behind another well-timed step forward, his knees weak beneath him. They headed down the corridor, towards where the curtain for the large bath was blocking it from view. Over the top of the pillars and the curtain, John could see that the bath was still steaming, thankfully full, and he could only hope that he and Greg wouldn’t be assigned to the large bath after this spirit had passed through it. 

‘Hey, John!’ Greg’s voice called out to him, coming down from out of the workers’ corridor, holding two bowls with what looked like some soup and a bit of bread. ‘Look, I’ve got us … uhh…’ 

John turned to see that Greg had nearly stumbled backwards, clearly just hit with the awful scent of the spirit behind him, and had to also resist the urge to collapse. John tried to open his mouth, to say something, but the rancid air from the spirit burnt in his lungs before he could, so he just opted for shaking his head, briefly. 

Greg tried to approach anyway, but, as John watched, the bread wilted, turning a nasty shade of brown, then green. 

‘Oh, our food!’ said Greg, completely dismayed, as he watched the food in his grasp turn sour and off. 

John settled for stumbling towards the big bath as quickly as he possibly could, in the hopes that he could get this over before he or his nose died from toxic shock. 

It would be a narrow thing, he thought. 

Quickly enough, though, he ushered the stink-spirit through the curtain, closing it behind the spirit, before watching in dismay as the spirit headed straight for the bath, and tipped itself over into the water. 

Of course, the bath being as full as it was, it overflowed, and a hug wave of stinky, rancid water washed through the room towards him. John only had time to take in a breath and clap his hands over his face, dropping the gold to the floor, before he was hit with the slimy wave. 

It completely overpowered him, washing over him and throwing him back until he cracked his head against the pillar next to the curtain. The curtain itself, by some magical property, didn’t allow the wave to escape, but was coated almost to the top in slime. The floor was left the same, after the wave had hit and calmed down, covered in a knee deep pool of the stuff, emanating a scent that if John never smelt again, it would be too soon. 

John himself was coated in a layer of the slime, covering him head to toe, griming his face and making his clothes heavy and wet, and reeking of whatever it was. The bucket full of bath tokens had washed down the room to sit next to him, easily floating in what was now a rather viscous, almost jelly substance. 

Looking up, John realised that the stink spirit was now inside the bath, and it’s mouth was opening, releasing a sort of bleating noise that John would more expect from a goat then a monster from the underworld, but nevertheless, it did. It was holding up its two appendages, looking at them almost sadly, before rolling to the edge of the tub, and tucking its two appendages over, and looking and John imploringly. 

John spotted the bucket full of tokens once more, just as Greg poked his head around the corner of the curtain, gasping in shock. 

‘My god, mate, what happened?’ 

‘The spirit got in,’ replied John, gruffly, ‘and it was too full. The thing overflowed. You’d think with the amount of slime on the floor, it would be gone now, but… no…’ 

Greg frowned, looking up at the spirit, before regarding John carefully. 

‘You got an idea, mate?’ he asked. 

‘Just one,’ replied John, feeling almost sorry for the spirit as it looked at John sadly. 

John reached over to the bucket of tokens that he had been given by the child-faced spirit earlier, tugging it with him as he tried to make his way over to the panel where Greg had earlier put the token. 

It was quite the trek, and as he made his way around the tub, again the spirit bleated at him, sadly. John nodded at the spirit, ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m going.’ 

He made it over there, tugging at the panel carefully to try and work it open, before grasping the cord in one hand and clipping to it one of the tokens he fished out at random from the bucket. 

With a tug, he sent it off, dropping down the chute to where Mrs Hudson was waiting underneath. 

The great spout dropped from the wall, falling with a clang all the way down to just above the tub. The rope dropped down, and John stumbled and waded his way through all of the muck and grime that covered the floor to try and scramble up to the rim of the rub. 

Inside the tub, the stink spirit was observing him keenly through its eye slits, sitting in the water almost glumly. It bleated at him, once, when he reached the rim, and watched as he pulled on the rope, sharply tugging to prompt the water to pour down out of the pipe. 

This water was warm, and sweet smelling, almost like honey. It was coloured a slightly gold colour, lending weight to the theory that Mrs Hudson actually had mixed honey into the steaming liquid. It shot down out of the pipe, and landed squarely on top of the mound of slime, sheeting down in waves and landing straight in the tub with a splash. 

Rapidly, the tub began to fill once more, and John soon found himself facing another tidal wave of now fresher water, and, overbalancing, he windmilled his arms in an attempt to stay upright. It was to no avail, unfortunately, as he spilled over, tripping straight down into the tub, only to be caught by a slimy tentacle, covered in fast moving waterfalls of water. 

It covered him head to toe, and he struggled for breath. 

Out by the curtain, Greg watched this happen with dismay, immediately pushing the plates of food to the side, and rolling up his pants, before wading into the mess. 

‘John!’ he called out to the smaller human, ‘I’m coming, don’t worry!’ 

John couldn’t take a breath to breath, as he was placed closer and closer to the large mound of flowing water that the stink-spirit was covered over by. The stink spirit seemed to be trying to press him into its side.

Reaching out a palm, John tried to push against the side of the stink spirit, attempting to protest against the spirit’s movements, only to encounter something hard and unyielding. 

Feeling around it, John realised that it was made of some sort of metal, with rubber coating it on the outside. It was sticking out of the side of the spirit, stuck fast. Giving it a few experimental tugs, John pulled at it, trying to dislodge whatever it was, to no avail. 

‘John!’ Greg called out, behind him. 

John stuck his head out of the water, peering back at his friend, who was standing right next to the tub, holding his hand out for John to grab onto. John shook his head. 

‘I think he’s got a thorn or something in his side,’ John explained. Greg frowned, his brow creasing, as he peered up at the mound of water that was the stink spirit. 

‘I don’t think that’s a stink spirit,’ Greg said, sharply, turning to where Molly was standing at the curtain. John had a firm grasp on the thorn… thing, stuck into the side of the spirit. ‘Molls, can you get me some rope?’ 

‘Yeah, right,’ Molly replied, turning and letting the curtain fall shut. Returning a moment later, a roll of thick, brown cord wrapped up in her small hands, she handed it to Greg, who handed the end up to John. 

John took the thick end of the rope in one hand, bringing it up under the water, and trying to wrap it around the handle. 

Quickly, he looped the rope tightly around the handle, and tied it off with a simple bowline, tugging it a few times to make sure that it was secure. As soon as he was certain, he poked his head out of the water to look back at Greg. 

‘Done it, Greg, can you and Molly pull?’ Greg nodded, and Molly followed suit, grabbing ahold of the long, loose end of the rope and giving it a tug, as hard as all three of them could, but it was no use. The handle was stuck tight in the side of the spirit. 

Frowning, John panted, sticking his head back out of the water to look at where Greg was standing at the curtain with Molly, wiping sweat from his brow. 

‘I think we’re going to need a few more hands to help,’ he said, gesturing to Molly and Greg both. 

Greg bit his lip, frustrated, but next to him, Molly brightened. 

‘Why don’t we get the others to help?’ Molly asked. Greg nodded, smiling. 

‘You know, that might just work!’ said Greg, turning and dashing out of the curtain. Outside, he could be heard gathering up the other workers, cooks, cleaners and hosts alike, even a few of the administrators, to come down and grab ahold of the rope. 

Slowly, places on the rope filled up, each one grabbing onto a bit of the rope. 

‘Okay, everyone!’ called Greg, taking ahold of the rope right behind where John was leaning his full body weight on the rope. ‘Pull!’ 

Behind John, he could hear the sound of what seemed like nearly all the bath-house workers, pulling and tugging along the rope, tugging as hard as they possibly could. 

‘Pull!’ called Greg, again, and with the extra effort, something seemed to give, and the handle shot straight out of the side of the spirit. Attached to it, to John’s surprise, was an entire bicycle, rusted and dark green in colour. The force of their tugs sent it shooting out of the tub and across the floor, skating down, and pulling with it a river of various other assorted abandoned bits and bobs. 

In the pile of lost things, John could see everything from the bike, to a tyre, to half of what looked like a washing machine, as well as bricks, wire, tape, and more than a few plastic bags. It looked like what would happen if someone emptied out a trash compactor, and covered with sludge, before dipping it in water. 

The entire thing was emitting an awful stench, but John knew that they weren’t done yet. Already, the other workers were gasping, and getting to their feet, trying to all poke their heads around the curtains to see what had happened. Molly was shooing them away, just as John clambered up the pile of trash, up towards where the spirit was still encased in a great tomb of water. 

Hanging out the side of the spirit was a single thread, long, and thing, covered by nasty black sludge. It tied the spirit down to all the trash in the room, and John realised that the spirit couldn’t be free without releasing that first. 

So, his dirty blond hair coated in a thick layer of sludge, and his tanned face covered in grime, he worked his way back up, his clothes sodden and wet, and disgusting smelling. Up he reached, towards where that single string was remaining, and, wrapping both hands tightly around it, tugged sharply. 

It was stuck fast, but with a few more tugs, popped free, releasing what looked like a black bath plug, and a cloud of purple and teal smoke, that sparkled in the light of the flickering sconces. 

Immediately, the water collapsed down, as if some ballon underneath it had burst, and the tub immediately flooded, the water again like a tidal wave as it swept towards John. 

John did everything in his power to cling on, but it was to no avail, as he lost his footing, and was again swept over by the gushing water. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how he wanted to look at it, he was caught by something. Some sort of fist, made from water, caught him in its grasp, tightly holding him so that he wouldn’t be swept away. 

From John’s perspective, it felt more than a little odd, the sensation of being underwater and yet he could see the ground far underneath him. Air bubbled out of his mouth, as he gazed out from inside his watery prison. 

His lungs were already burning, the shock of literally being caught by the water not allowing him to have any chance of gathering breath in preparation. He felt almost like he was drowning, perpetually. 

Of course, it wasn’t actually as long as it had seemed, as a few moments later, he was laid gently down to stand on the very edge of the tub, his feet just touching the top of the water, where it had come to rest, completely still, in the bath. It was like a mirror pond, sessile and reflective, so much so that if John looked over he could see himself. 

To his surprise, he had been completely cleaned. 

His body was free of grime and muck, his hair back to its dirty blond, and his face clean. And, as he looked into his hands, he realised that the spirit, whatever it was, had left him a small gift. He wasn’t completely sure what it was, but it was round, and hard, like a soup dumpling, except dark green. 

Confused, John lifted it to his face and tried to smell it, but there was no discernible scent that he could detect other than the overpoweringly sour smell of the trash covering the floor of the room. About to toss it into the pile of trash as just another piece of the muck, he paused. 

Something about whatever it was told I’m that it would be important. Whatever it was, he thought, he might need it. Otherwise, why would the spirit have given it to him, specifically? 

Tucking it away in one of the pockets of his billowy, if a bit damp, pants, he patted it, swiftly, to make sure it wasn’t coming out, then looked back into the bath. 

Surely whatever it was was still in there. 

Behind him, Greg gasped. 

Turning, John tried to see what it was that was wrong, but Greg was looking down at the plain, tiled floors, at what just seemed like the reflection of light off the surface of the water covering it. 

‘Gold!’ exclaimed Molly, over by the curtains. Swiftly, she bent, and plucked a piece out of the tiles, holding it up. 

John could see, then, that she was right. A small, shining piece of gold was being held up in Molly’s grubby hand, as the mousy girl peered at it carefully. 

‘No, Molly, don’t, the guest is still here!’ Greg prompted, pointing at the bath. Turning back to it, John could see that the surface of the water was bubbling and rippling, as a large, wooden mask with a white beard and white eyebrows emerged from the water. 

It was grizzled, and gnarled, looking like it had grown in the side of a particularly old tree. It had a mouth, cut into the wood, with a few odd looking teeth hanging out of it. 

‘Thanks…’ it hissed. 

John started, realising that it was thanking him, and, too shocked to reply, just nodded at the mask. 

It grinned, happily, before falling to rest back on the water, facing up at the tiled roof above. Then, with a mother abrupt bubble, and then a burst of water, it began to laugh, almost jovially, and rose up from the water in a burst of steam, attached to what looked like a long, snaking dragon. The dragon was teal in colour, and appeared like it was literally made out of water. It flowed and danced almost like a river did, with small, clawed feet and a long, whip-like tail, a cloud of hairs attached to the end. 

It darted up to the ceiling, swirled around and then did a circle around a nearby pillar, before curling around where John was standing, observing it from the edge of the tub. 

‘Watch out!’ called Greg, just as the dragon shot over the heads of everyone in the bath-house, and out towards the curtains of reception. Just high enough to see over the top of the curtains, John saw as a pair of panicked hosts pulled aside the curtains, allowing the long, narrow water-dragon pull out, and through into reception, flickering about until it was gone. 

There was absolute silence. 

John could have sworn he heard a pin drop. 

‘You alright up there, mate?’ asked Greg, after a moment. 

A little shaken, John just looked down at Greg, nodding, before getting to his knees and gently sliding down until he was standing on the floor of the bath-house once more, next to the other man. Greg was smiling down at him, his friendly face lit up. 

‘Well done, John,’ he said, ‘I think that was actually a powerful river spirit, who you managed to impress. Which reminds me, gold!’ 

Leaping forwards, Greg began to pick the pieces of gold out of the marble flooring, gathering up a few bits before someone else apparently heard his cry. 

Altogether, the bath-house seemed to let out an exclamation, and everyone seemed to be trying to get through the curtain into where John, Greg and Molly were standing. Suddenly, the room was swamped with people, all scratching and picking away at the floor, gathering up all the gold pieces they possibly could find. 

Greg himself was next to John on his hands and knees, his left hand piled with quite a few of the pieces. Molly was next to him, picking out more, her hair still mucky and grimy from the river-spirit’s dirt. 

Suddenly, a silence fell over the people gathered near the big tub, as a chill went up John’s spine. 

Without even having to look, John knew who it was who had come into the place, and was standing nearby, a disapproving look on his face. John was right. He didn’t have to look far to see Moriarty, standing on a walkway above the main bath-house floor. He was waving a finger at John and the rest of the workers, tutting mockingly. 

‘Now, now, what do you all think you’re doing?’ 

No one replied. Again, Moriarty tutted. 

‘Really? No one has anything to say? That’s rather disappointing.’ 

Next to him, John could see that Greg was visibly wilting, and his blood boiled. How dare Moriarty? He hadn’t done any of the work. He had no right to barge in here. 

‘Hey! Moriarty!’ John caught his attention, waving an arm to catch Moriarty’s black eye. 

‘Ooh, Johnny-boy, have something to say?’ asked Moriarty, in his lilting, sweet tone that made John want to be sick. 

‘We’re just taking the gold,’ announced John, to the collective gasps of the other workers. In a corner, Irene was looking at him, with one eyebrow raised. 

‘Now, now, Johnny-boy, this is a business,’ said Moriarty, ‘that gold belongs to the bath-house, and to me.’ 

‘Why?’ asked John. ‘You didn’t do any of the work, you don’t deserve to reap the rewards.’ 

‘Oh, you’ve got fire, haven’t you!’ mocked Moriarty, again. ‘Well, no matter. I don’t particularly care what you think. Everyone in my employ is paid, and this gold here is what the customer has paid for our services at the bath-house. That means that it is mine.’ 

‘You can’t take it from us!’ announced Molly, in a squeaky, but determined voice. 

Moriarty just threw back his oily head, and laughed out loud, mocking in the face of Molly’s courage. John grit his teeth. ‘You’ve got spunk, too, haven’t you, dear Molly?’ Moriarty grinned, a sick, twisted grin that made John’s insides curl. ‘It is _so_ enjoyable to watch dogs beg for their bones. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. I think you’ll find that I have actually taken the gold.’ 

Horrified gasps rung out through the main bath-house floor, as all the workers found that the gold in their hands had been exchanged for the slime left behind by the river-spirit after his cleaning. Looking around, everyone tried to desperately find where the gold was, but John already knew. 

Sitting next to Moriarty was Sherlock, and in his hands was a wooden box filled up with golden pieces, the golden pieces that had been in the hands of the workers just a moment ago. 

Looking up at the other man, John tried to convey his anger and hurt at the betrayal with just a look, but he couldn’t even catch those mesmerising blue-grey-green eyes in a gaze. Suddenly, John felt awful, more sick than he had before, tears prickling furiously behind his eyes. 

_‘Arse,’_ muttered Greg, _‘Sherlock, Moriarty’s damn henchman.’_

And John couldn’t even defend Sherlock this time, because right there, striding away behind the hateful, slimy boss of the bath-house was the man he had hoped was his friend, the man he thought was kind, despite the hard exterior, the man he thought was shy and slightly uncertain, the one who had so sweetly held his hand, and took him to lunch, and talked about experiments so excitedly John had thought his head might burst. 

John looked away, furious at himself. 

***

The balcony right outside their bedroom was a little warmer now, and the rain was completely gone, the moon and stars peeking out from behind the clouds to fill the sky with beautiful, if unfamiliar constellations. John rested his head against the beam of the balcony, sitting between the marble pillars holding it up, and biting into the pastry that Greg had handed him earlier on. 

His shirt, completely soaked through, hung on the rail a little further away, along with those of the other workers in their room. His top half was completely bare of clothing, his skin cooling in the night air. 

The view over their balcony was absolutely incredible, looking out over the sea that had appeared, flooding the grassland that had been there before, lit up by nothing but starlight. 

Next to him, Greg sat down, leaning back to lie on the balcony, on his side, his head propped up by John’s knee. His chest was also completely bare, and he was contentedly chomping away on his own pastry. 

‘It’s a sea out there,’ John commented. Greg let out a low laugh. 

‘What did you expect, after all that rain we had?’ 

John shrugged, ‘I don’t know. In the human world, a sea doesn’t form just because we had a bit of rain.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow. ‘It rains so much here that it’s practically always an ocean out there. When you arrived, we just came out of a dry spell of four days.’ 

John looked back out over the water, seeing it with new eyes. If this was how it always was, then how was he going to get back to the human world? He couldn’t even see where he had come through anymore. 

Sighing, he took another bite of the pastry in his hands, chewing it half-heartedly. 

The sound of the train skating across its tracks came, then, faint, and far off, and somehow muffled, as if the tracks were now made of cotton. 

Looking over to the left, where the sound was coming from, John was astonished to see the train cutting a steady line across the ocean, looking like it was almost skating over the top of the water. Upon closer inspection, as the train drew a little closer, John could see that while the tracks were submerged, the water wasn’t actually deep enough to prevent the train from running across the tracks. It looked rather odd, though, the train cutting two smooth lines behind itself, and a wake following from the nose, as it passed by. 

The clacking sound was accompanied by the splashing of water, the train lit up brilliantly by headlights and tail-lights. 

Next to him, Greg let out a sigh. 

‘One day, it’ll be me getting on that train. I’m going to go, and I’m going to find who I’ve been searching for. I’m going to find wherever it is that I called home. I just hope that whoever it is that I’m searching for hasn’t forgotten me,’ Greg said, ‘Although, that would be a bit hypocritical, really, wouldn’t it?’ 

‘Is that how you’re going to get out of here?’ questioned John, ‘On the train?’ 

‘Eventually, yeah. I’m saving up, a bit of gold here, a bit there, where I can manage it, until I can afford the ticket. I don’t know where I’d go, but it’s something to work towards. I guess.’ 

‘Oh,’ said John, unsure of what it was that he wanted to say. 

‘Hopefully I’ll get enough, one day. Moriarty doesn’t pay very, well, but that’s okay. I’ll get there, someday, and that’s what counts, hey?’ 

‘How are you okay with that?’ John demanded, ‘How are you okay with doing all the work, only for Moriarty to sit up in his penthouse and keep all of it? I bet it would have only taken a tiny portion of what he must have made today to get you a ticket.’ 

‘We’re all used to it, here, honestly,’ shrugged Greg, ‘you take what you can get, from tips and from what we can save of what we’re paid, and you can get there, eventually.’ 

John sighed. 

‘Do you miss him? Whoever it is that you’re searching for?’ he asked, after a moment.

‘Yes,’ replied Greg, ‘I’d give anything, everything, just to have him here, by my side. And I don’t even know his name.’ 

John looked over, at the grey-haired fox spirit, who was looking away, out at the water. He seemed sad. Not just sad, but bone-deep sadness. 

‘When I leave, you’re coming with me.’ John announced, firmly. Greg smiled. 

‘Thanks, John, mate,’ he replied, thumping John on the shoulder, ‘I hope so. I really do.’ 

‘Hey,’ said a voice, from behind them, ‘you’re John, right?’ 

John turned, looking up to see another woman, this one with curly, blonde hair and pretty, blue eyes. She was wearing the clothes of a cook, but didn’t look like she was a frog. At least, she didn’t have any froggy parts. 

‘Yeah, I’m John, who are you?’ he asked. 

‘I’m Mary,’ she replied, holding out a hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

‘You too,’ John smiled up at her. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ 

‘No,’ Mary replied, ‘I just… well it’s just that… I wanted to say that I thought what you did today was very brave, and I was very impressed.’ 

A bright red blush was flushing her cheeks, and she smiled shyly, looking down at her feet, shuffling a little on the marble tiles. 

‘Thank you,’ said John, ‘it didn’t do much, but I tried, hey?’ 

‘That’s what counts,’ grinned Mary, ‘and for what it’s worth, thanks.’ 

‘No problem,’ John smiled, again, as Mary nodded, and shuffled her feet a little more, before turning, and walking away. 

Looking back out at the water with a smile, John shook his head. Greg nudged him on the shoulder. 

‘What was that?’ he asked, in a innuendo-laden tone, his eyebrows quirking. 

‘Nothing,’ said John, ‘just being friendly, I think.’ 

‘Mmhmm,’ hummed Greg, ‘very friendly.’ 

‘Shut up!’ laughed John. Greg laughed, shaking his head, before getting to his feet with a sigh.

‘I’m going to get the beds ready, okay?’ he said, tapping John on the shoulder. John looked up at him. 

‘Thanks,’ John nodded. Greg grinned, again, before pushing through the curtains and back into the bedroom. 

The sky was beginning to turn a warm purple, now, with the oncoming dawn, the stars beginning to blink out. 

John drew the gift that the river-spirit had given him out of his pocket, raising it to his nose once more, and inspecting it with a new eye. It didn’t look any different than it had in the flickering candlelight on the main bath floor, but it did seem to have some sort of shiny veneer spilt over it. 

Poking out his tongue, John licked it, quickly, trying to see if there was some sort of taste. Immediately, he regretted it, as a horrible, sour taste flooded his tongue, and made him want to retch. His lips twisted in disgust, and quickly, he took the last bite of the pastry in his other hand. 

About to throw it away, again, John got the sense, again, that it was going to be important, and, on a whim, raised it to his nose again, sniffing where he had licked it just a moment before. 

Now, it had an odd scent, almost herbal, but with something else mixed in, some sort of spice, that oddly enough, he recognised. Out in Afghanistan, on the plains of Musa Qala, he had come across a tiny village of Afghani civilians, mothers and children, as well as a few elderly. One of the oldest women there was a healer, of sorts, who used herbal remedies to solve many common maladies amongst the villagers. 

The spice that was mixed into whatever it was that this was, was extremely similar to something that the woman had used in the village. John couldn’t remember off the top of his head what it was that it helped with, but he could remember that it did work. 

So that must be what this was. Medicine of some sort, probably for spirits. 

Silently sending thanks to the river-spirit, John tucked it back into his pocket, thinking he should save it there for whatever it was to come. 

With that, he got to his feet, hearing the distinctive sounds of Greg snoring, in the bedroom behind him. He turned, about to push through the curtains when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted it. 

Far off, in the purpling sky, was a slip of black that he immediately recognised as Sherlock, in dragon form. 

Beautiful, the spirit was powerfully flickering through the sky, up near where the last of the stars were flickering in the new light, darting about like a shadowed ribbon on the horizon. 

John immediately expected to feel some sort of wave of hatred towards the dragon, but all he could feel was excitement, and nerves, in the pit of him stomach. The other man had committed a betrayal, but now, all John could do was marvel at his beauty, and wonder at the flickering, graceful movement of the dragon. 

And it was enough, for now. 

He was mad at Sherlock, but already, he knew that Sherlock would likely have an explanation, and that he would wait, and listen. That he wouldn’t judge until Sherlock was finished, and that he could be patient. 

With that, John turned, and finally pushed through the curtains, following the sounds of Greg’s snores to tuck himself in for sleep. 


	6. Chapter 6

John was running. Through the dark town, empty of any signs of life, through the hedge towards the low barn that Sherlock had shown him the day before. Across the grass his feet pounded, towards where he could see the pigs waiting in the distance. The sun was shining perfectly overhead, light beating down on his back and warming his skin. 

In the distance, John could see the ocean of water beyond the bath-house, shimmering in the sunlight. And, if he looked just to the right, through the town, he could also see the gate back to the human world. It seemed like it was easier to get to, now, the entrance that he had come through with his sister almost beckoning to him. 

It seemed to call out that his home was that way. If he just went through there, he would be able to find his home, that finally he would recognise something, at least. 

Maybe if he walked through, this would all turn out to be some sort of fevered hallucination, that the bath-house and Moriarty and Sherlock were all just the figment of his dazzled mind. That Harry would just be a call away, drunk, but at last she wasn’t a pig. 

Speaking of pigs, John darted through the open door of the pigsty, towards the smell where the pigs were all waiting, lying on their back and sides, in the sunlight. John raced over to lean over the railings, trying to look for where his sister was, but to no avail. He couldn’t see her anywhere, only a few pigs with dark coloured hair on top of their heads could be seen, and a few with small, red spots on their snouts that John could almost fool himself into thinking were hers, but no.

These pigs were all completely unfamiliar. 

John had the horrifying vision, all of a sudden, that she had already been taken by Moriarty, that she had been fried up by those horrible frog cooks, covered in grease, and served on a big platter for the slimy shadow of the bath-house to eat. He wouldn’t put it past Moriarty, either, to consume his sister and not tell him. 

Trying to get his hopes up again, John scoured the pig sty with his eyes once more, trying to spot a pig that even looked vaguely familiar. They were all beginning to show some interest in him, snorting and rolling over, and some even trotting over to where he was standing against the fence. 

‘Harry?’ he called, into the sty, in the hope that maybe his sister had retained some of herself. ‘Harry, can you hear me? Please, if you can, I need you to come here.’ 

Nothing. 

‘Harry, look,’ he pulled the medicine out of the pocket of his pants, ‘I’ve got some medicine, from the river-spirit. I think it might turn you back human. Come here, please, I want to give it to you!’ 

Wrong move. 

Suddenly, all the pigs were interested, and a cacophony of noises started up amongst them, as they all jostled and moved about, trying to get into position and vie for his attention. All more energetic at the promise of a cure to their pig-ness, they were leaping and banging up against the fence so harshly that John was almost scared that they were going to break through, and trample him. All in an effort to get ahold of the medicine that he held in his grasp. 

Shaking in horror, John backed off from the fence, stumbling backwards and almost having to crawl away from the pigsty, from the jostling pigs, and back out into the field, where he could see that the weather was rapidly changing. Wind was picking up, howling across the grasses and sending them whipping into John’s face. Dark clouds were brewing on the horizon, and already rain was misting in the air. 

‘Oh God,’ whispered John, as he breathed in the iron-scented air just before the rainstorm that looked like it was just about to hit. 

It seemed to have just appeared from thin air. The sky had seemed completely empty of clouds before, beautiful blue skies and bright sunlight. 

Now everything had been bleached of colour, grey and drab, and John just felt like giving up. 

Then, flickering along the horizon and heading straight for him, John made out the shape of a great, black dragon. It was flitting around in arches and waves along the edge of his vision, darting forwards and growing in size at it approached him. Sherlock looked terrifying in this light, his fur spiked up along his backbone like thorns, and his eyes blazing grey and cold. 

John felt waves of shivers shoot up his spine as the dragon flew overhead, then twisted around to smoothly land next to him. Blinking, Sherlock changed between one heartbeat and the next into a human, his coat billowing out behind him in the breeze, and his curls whipping. 

He was facing away from John, staring out over the cliff towards where the ocean was turning grey and stormy. Waves were thrashing and foaming on the surface, whipping up a frenzy. And yet, all John could feel was relief at the sight of the other man, in the hopes that this time, this time Sherlock might actually be able to do something. 

‘Sherlock!’ he called out, running, and reaching out to where the tall man was standing near the edge of the cliff, only for Sherlock to turn, and the expression on his face turning John’s insides to stone. 

John froze, his hand still outstretched to touch at Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock’s eyes were completely dark and bleak, unfamiliar and stony. His lips were curled up at the corners, and his cheekbones seemed higher than usual, the shadows beneath them harsh in their lines, cut into the other man’s face. 

John lowered his hand, slowly, realising that any advances on his part would be entirely unwelcome right now. 

‘Sherlock?’ he asked, questioning, a little unsure. 

‘Yes?’ asked Sherlock, condescendingly. 

‘I… um…’ John stuttered, ‘can you please help me? Like you did before? I can’t find my sister.’ 

‘And why would I want to help you? You are just a stupid, little human. Boring!’ 

John took another step back, shock clearly showing on his face. ‘Wha… what do you mean?’ 

‘I mean that I wouldn’t help you if my life depended on it,’ replied Sherlock, snarling, ‘You are nothing. You will be dead soon, dead and gone, and how can I care about that?’ 

‘Sherlock, why are you saying these things?’ John asked, desperate now, ‘has Moriarty done something to you? I’ll kill him if he’s hurt you.’ 

Sherlock actually threw back his head and laughed, a nasty, coiling laugh that made John feel sick to his stomach. ‘Moriarty? Moriarty hasn’t done anything to me. Moriarty is so much _more._ You are just a human, you are nothing, but he is more than a man. More than human.’ 

‘What does that mean?’ 

‘He is not like you, John. You cannot solve this problem by throwing your fists at it. You have to think — use your mind to solve the problem. But you can’t do that, can you? You can’t _think._ No one can.’ 

‘Sherlock…’ John gasped out, tears prickling furiously behind his eyes once more, ‘Sherlock please. Just stop this. Stop it.’ 

Sherlock just grinned at him, before some sort of change seemed to take place. Sherlock was morphing, changing right in front of his very eyes. 

He was transforming into something… someone else. 

The man’s long, lithe body melted away, to reveal black, greased-back hair, and soulless, black eyes. Skin sallow and almost bleak, lips thin and curled up into a familiar, predatory grin. 

‘Hello again, Johnny-boy,’ laughed Moriarty, ‘your devotion to him is soo amusing! You’d do anything for him, and you’ve known him all of two days? What do you know about Sherlock, anyway? You don’t even know who he is!’ 

Moriarty was grinning, his white teeth pointed, snapping like those of the alligator John had seen as a young boy, visiting the zoo. 

Monster. 

John took another hurried step back, holding out a hand to try and ward off Moriarty’s approach, but for every step back that John took, Moriarty took another long step forwards, advancing on John and staring him down. 

‘Why are you fighting me, little human?’ wondered Moriarty, ‘just give in. Give up. Your sister is nothing but a drunk — she’s not coming back. Just give up. Stop fighting so hard. You are doing nothing but hurting yourself.’ 

John took a deep breath, his hands shaking. His leg was aching, stabbing pains shooting up through the joints until it collapsed totally under him, throwing him straight back to the ground, and he collapsed there, Moriarty looming over him like an eagle in its nest. 

‘Give. Up.’ hissed Moriarty, shrugging, ‘just give up. It would be so much easier that way.’ 

John tried to be defiant, where he was propping himself up like an injured soldier on the grass. 

Which, upon reflection, he realised was probably quite an apt description for him. 

Maybe it was time. Maybe he should just give up. Why was he fighting so damn hard anyway? What on Earth was it all for? 

It wasn’t like he had anything to go back to. There was nothing left for him. Everything had been razed to the ground by the bullet passing through his shoulder. James’ rejection still sat sour in the back of his mind, his sister’s alcoholism was tearing her body apart, making it difficult for her to do anything for him. He had no friends, no job, no money. No one was waiting for him. 

Maybe … maybe… 

‘Yes, that’s it,’ encouraged Moriarty, above him, ‘just give up, little human. You are nothing but a tin soldier, a wind up toy whose key has run short. You are rusted, and old, and no one wants you anymore. So give in.’ 

John looked up at where Moriarty was looming over him once more, to be shocked by the sight that he saw. Instead of the slimy man that had been standing there just a few moments ago, there was a massive bird of prey looming over him, beak long, and steel grey, sharpened to a harsh point. Eyes like black, glass beads stared down at him out a black, feathered face. 

Trying to push himself back to his feet, John stumbled backwards, trying to get away from the nasty claws of the black vulture leaning over him. It was screeching, howling along with the winds that were shooting past his body, ruffling the feathers of the great bird. 

John gasped out in horror, raising his hands to cover his face, just as the vulture leapt forward, beak agape, and great maw exposed and snapping at him. 

***

Awaking with a start, John sat up in bed, throwing his covers off with a gasp of horror. Sweat was pouring down his body, and he felt overwhelmed, as if he was packed into a sauna, and had been sitting there for days and days on end. 

On the far side of the room, the curtains were billowing slightly in the breeze, sunlight pouring in from where the sun was sitting at the angle of mid-afternoon. Warmth was flooding the room, and many of the workers strewn about on their mattresses had legs or arms or other appendages swung out from their covers. Next to him, Greg was flat passed out on top of his duvet, bare above the waist, his tanned skin shimmering in the sunlight. One small hand was tucked up on his silver hair, the other by his nose. He was emitting a low, grunting, snoring sound, and it helped to ground John in reality. 

It had all just been a dream. One big, long, nasty nightmare like those he had experienced after Afghanistan. At least there hadn’t been guns and fire and the dead eyes of his friends this time. 

Just an awful vulture John could still see the shape of behind his eyelids. 

Shivering despite the heat, John knew that he had absolutely no chance of getting back to sleep in this state, and instead elected to fold his duvet back, and push himself to his feet, padding out onto the balcony to collect his soft, grey top. The breeze on his sweat-damp face was cool and refreshing, also helping ground him in reality, and stop the nightmare from playing behind his eyelids. 

One time was enough. Far too much, in his opinion. 

Again, he shivered, quickly, pulling the shirt over his head and tying it about his waist with a small length of white fabric. 

The shirt was no longer damp, and no longer reeked of the muck and grime that the spirit had brought with him, but instead with the warm and slightly briny scent of the water that was calmly lapping against the cliffs below. The entire setting was completely calm, cooling and refreshing, and helped to clear his mind from what his dream had just subjected him to. 

Far to the left, just near the town, he could make out the shape of the low barns, sitting on their field, and further past that, the thatch of trees that blocked part of the town from view. 

The rushing, clacking sound of the train passing by caught his attention, and John looked over to watch as it thunk over the tracks, making a wake in the clear, beautiful water shimmering below them. 

Nothing like the human world, the Spirit World really was something else. John had only seen water this clear once before, on the Helmand river in Afghanistan, where the soldiers sometimes gathered to bathe on a particularly slow day. If he peered out at just the right angle, John could even see all the way down to where the grasses that had been open to the elements before the storm were now covered, and waving in unseen currents under the surface of the water. 

John took a deep breath of the clean air, letting it fill his lungs and clear the final bits of the nightmare from his head, relegating it to a distant memory rather than one that was immediate. It calmed his previously racing heartbeat, allowing him to gather together some sense of the control he had had before, and form some sort of plan of action. 

The nightmare had stripped him of a lot of hope of immediate escape, but it was slowly coming back to him. Just as Greg had said, the train was probably his best way out of here, but first he had to find some way to cure Harry. The nightmare had told him one thing — that the medicine ball in his pocket might just be enough to cure Harry of her pig-ness, and then they could be on their way. 

Peering back out at the horizon, John knew that he couldn’t escape today, at least. He had no idea when the next full moon might be — he would have to wait until the sun set to tell, and even then, it might not happen. It felt sometimes like time flowed a little differently in the Spirit World than it did in the human world. He would have to find someone who could tell him. 

Maybe Mrs Hudson would know. 

John brushed the thought out of his mind for now. He knew that nothing could really be accomplished currently. It was both too late and too early for anything to really occur. 

The train was meandering back out of his field of view now. Steam clouds were following it, spewing from the funnel out the top of the red engine, and dissipating high up in the cloudless sky. 

That was one positive of this situation. The weather seemed like it was very fair today, perfect to allow him to go check on Harry, perhaps. 

With that plan of action in mind, John walked over to the curtain, pushing it open before heading down to the reception. He knew that at this time, minimal staff if any were actually around, so he could walk out the front door of the bath-house without having to worry about being caught out. He realised that Moriarty probably knew where he was going, but the slimy man didn’t seem to be stopping him. John didn’t really want to push his luck, though, so tried to move away from the bath-house as quietly as he could. 

He made for the route that Sherlock had shown him yesterday, out through the hedge into the field, and across the field towards where the barn was sitting. Unlike in his dream, John didn’t race that way, instead sedately walked there, trying to enjoy the fresh air and illusion of freedom that it provided him. Each breathe he took filled his nostrils with the fresh scent of the flowers in the field, something he realised had actually been missing from his dream. 

The barn was rapidly approaching, so John reached out and pushed aside the gate, rusted under his fingertips, until it groaned open in his grasp. Inside the barn was warm, and slightly shadowed, dim to the point where John had to wait a moment to let his eyes adjust to the new light. The place was filled with the scent of the pigs, moving about and treading in their own shit. The smell, of course, left something to be desired, but it was nothing like the foul stench of the river spirit last night. 

Stepping up to the fence, John peered over to where his sister had been yesterday, and, to his delight, saw that she was there, perfect and whole. He took another long look at her features, the spots across her snout, the chip on her hoof, and, of course, the three perfect ringlets of her tail, which was lashing back and forth slightly in the heat. 

Briefly, John leaned his head against the railing, letting out a sigh. The Relief flooded his body, feeling like it was making his bones ache a little less, and filling him with life, fight, and hope. It was enough, for now, John thought, and turned on one heel. He waved goodbye to his pig of a sister, and left the same way that he had come, satisfied with the sight of his sister lying on her side in a small patch of sunlight. It was enough for him to let go of the last vestiges of his dream, leaving only one thing left in his mind to worry about. 

Sherlock. 

It seemed like it was all about Sherlock. 

John strode back out into the field, pausing a moment right near the edge of the cliff where he had seen Sherlock land in his dream, closing his eyes to drink in the light glow from behind his eyelids. The warmth was flooding through him, making him worry just that little bit less about the other man. 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. 

The dragon whipped overhead, clean through the air, before turning so that John could get a look. 

Sherlock was far more magnificent than John’s imagination had given him credit for. Black scales shone in the sunlight, an undertone of gold giving them a deep sort of lustre that John admired. His snout was long, and proud, eyes narrow, sharp, and all-seeing. They shifted between grey, silver, gold, green and blue, captivating John in their depths. Sherlock also had a beautiful mane of soft curls, just like his hair in human form, slightly brown in the sunlight, and coiling perfectly. 

Two long whiskers erupted from his snout, gracefully flowing like the roots of a tree to whip around his body as he flowed through the air. 

When John got a look at him, it banished all the nightmare-images of Sherlock from his thoughts. Sherlock was nothing like he had imagined him. He wasn’t a sharp, black dragon with nothing-eyes, he was a gorgeous work of art, that made John feel all aflutter inside. 

Sherlock landed in front of him on paws that looked oddly like those of a cat, his long body arching and coiling powerfully up behind his snout. The dragon was regarding him happily over that same long snout, whiskers hanging down just by his front paws. The dragon was simply enormous, looming over John a good metre above his head, his snout wide, and his body as thick as a tree trunk. 

John, suddenly filled with the urge to touch, stepped forwards, silently, to reach out a hand. It was slow progress, and his hand shook the entire time, but gently, John managed to lay a hand on Sherlock’s soft snout, stopping there. The moment dragged on for a long while, Sherlock gazing at him, and John gazing back, their eyes locked. 

Then, gently, Sherlock’s incredible eyes slid closed, and Sherlock pushed his snout into John’s hand, encouraging John to run his small, tanned fingers along the length of the soft snout under his skin. Sherlock was warm, so warm that John felt like a fire was burning under the dragon’s skin. Which would be fitting, he supposed. His fur was soft, nothing like that of a dog, more like well-washed human hair, smooth under his fingers. 

John ran his hand up and down the snout, and, to his surprise, Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, and he began to let out low, growling-type noises that John took to mean that Sherlock was truly enjoying the rub that John was giving his nose. 

Raising up his other hand to cup under Sherlock’s snout, he began to scratch underneath Sherlock’s jaw, as well, encouraging those little sounds the dragon was making. It encouraged John to step a little closer, and Sherlock responded to this proximity by leaning forwards to brush his nose against John’s clothed torso, sniffing and growling happily. 

John grinned at this response. ‘Like that, do you?’ 

Sherlock’s eyes opened, full of reproachful mirth, as if to say; _Obviously, John, don’t be an idiot._

John continued with his scratching motions under Sherlock’s jaw, smoothing up and between Sherlock’s eyes to go over the mane, and the velvety, thin ears. This the dragon seemed to enjoy even more, and it allowed John to forget, for a moment, what Sherlock had done. 

That Sherlock had stood by Moriarty’s side, and picked that money away from Greg and everyone who had worked hard, just to try and earn their way back home. 

It couldn’t last, of course. 

John did, of course, begin to think these thoughts, and no amount of affectionate rubbing could take away the absolute betrayal that he had felt because of it. And Sherlock, as if he could sense these thoughts, stiffened under John’s grasp, then, seemingly reluctantly, pulled away. 

John looked at Sherlock, his hands back by his sides, and Sherlock looked back. Sherlock’s eyes were filled with shame, and the dragon looked away, before blinking. Before his eyes, Sherlock changed, not instantly like he had in John’s dream, but instead beginning to flow away, like petals falling away from a flower, until all that was left was Sherlock’s black clad body. Sherlock’s curls settled in the slight breeze that was left after his transformation, before the other man opened his eyes. 

‘Sherlock,’ John murmured, by way of greeting. Sherlock didn’t reply, just holding out a bare hand in askance. His wide, shifting eyes were filled with a sort of pleading, a silent ask for forgiveness, which John couldn’t grant. Silently, he shook his head. ‘Explanation, first.’ 

‘Please, John,’ begged Sherlock, uncharacteristically, ‘do not ask that of me.’ 

‘Sherlock, just tell me why. That’s all I want to know. I need to know if I can forgive you this.’ 

‘You can,’ insisted Sherlock, ‘of course you can.’ 

‘No,’ replied John, ‘I can’t just do that, Sherlock. You didn’t see their faces. You didn’t see Greg’s face. He was so let down, so disappointed. That gold was his ticket out of here. Do you understand that? Do you understand that Greg doesn’t know anything about his home, that he knows nothing of where he belongs, and with whom? From what I can tell, he is missing half of himself, half of his heart, and all he wants is a ticket out of here. So please, Sherlock. I need a good reason to forgive you.’ 

Sherlock was looking away, biting one of his plush lips. ‘John, you don’t understand. It’s not as easy as that. No one here knows who they are, or where they belong, really. That is what Moriarty has done to all of us. And I am his apprentice. I went to him, I wanted to know what he does about magic. I need to know, can’t you see that, John?’ 

‘But he is not forcing you to take that gold! If he wanted to, he could take it himself! You don’t just have to do what he says.’ 

Sherlock grit his teeth, in frustration. ‘It is never that simple.’

John sighed. He couldn’t forgive Sherlock, but he could at least understand where Sherlock was coming from. He nodded. ‘Okay, Sherlock. I don’t forgive you, quite yet, but … just …’ 

Sherlock looked up at him, a desperate sort of longing in his eyes, and hope. ‘Thank you, John,’ he said, seeming like he was truly grateful for what John was saying. ‘I am trying to find a way out.’ 

‘I believe you,’ John said, smiling kindly, and holding out both of his arms. Sherlock was happy enough to come into them, the other man’s long, lithe body finally in his arms. John hugged the taller man, gently, one hand on the back of his neck, and the other on his hip. Sherlock’s own arms came around his shoulders, and he pressed his face into John’s shoulder. 

John rubbed at Sherlock’s shoulder, comfortingly, and sighed. ‘I’m sorry for doubting you,’ he murmured, after a moment. Sherlock said nothing, just shaking his head in the material on John’s shoulder. John allowed him this, slowly sinking down and bringing Sherlock with him so that the taller, skinnier man was folded in his lap. 

Sherlock seemed happy with that, curling further into John’s more compact body, his long coat covering them both, shielding from the cool breeze. John ran a comforting hand up Sherlock’s supine, almost rubber looking spine where he was curled practically unnaturally into John’s lap. It made John feel guilty that he had blamed this beautiful creature for what had happened. And yet, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of betrayal that he had felt, right at the moment when Sherlock had gathered the bag of gold up for Moriarty to heft off into the depths of some vault. 

‘Sherlock,’ John said, ‘is Moriarty coercing you? Forcing you, somehow?’ 

Sherlock stiffened, not looking at John in any way. 

After a moment, he said; ‘I would tell you, if I could.’ 

John could only take that to mean one thing. Sherlock was being coerced, somehow, and there was nothing John could do to stop that. He was even being prevented from telling anyone about the coercion. 

And John silently promised himself that he would do whatever he could to help Sherlock away from Moriarty. He had already promised Greg, but it seemed like he just couldn’t resist the urge to help people, no matter what. He didn’t know what it was about himself, but he had always felt that urge, deep down, to help people. Whether that be walking into open battle in Afghanistan, or just offering a few pounds to a homeless young woman on the street. 

‘He’s going to send me away soon,’ Sherlock murmured, burrowing deeper into John, ‘I can see it. He has another mission for me.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘When you arrived, I had just returned from a mission that he had sent me on. He sent me out to the mountains, where the war spirits are. I can’t… I can’t say anything else… but … it was awful.’ 

John felt a wave of sympathy for the beautiful creature in his arms. Sherlock seemed so hurt by whatever it was that Moriarty had him doing, but it also seemed like he couldn’t do anything about it. Not at the moment, anyway. 

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ John replied, rubbing a hand up Sherlock’s spine, once more. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘I don’t want to go away again,’ Sherlock said, ‘And I think I know what Moriarty wants me to do next.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘I can’t… I can’t tell you. I want to, I do, but I can’t.’ 

John sighed, his hand rubbing soothing circles on one of Sherlock’s arms, where it was curled up against the rest of Sherlock’s body. 

Suddenly, he got a flash of _it_ again. Whatever it was. That moment of instant recognition, where he immediately knew that he recognised Sherlock. From long ago. The memory was still hazy, he couldn’t make anything else out. 

He could make out the sensation of rough bricks under his feet, and tears dried up on his face. The sounds of the city around him, the smoke and haze, and the smell of unwashed bodies pressed together to form the thrumming heartbeat of life. A general sense of displacement, and loss, separation and loneliness even amongst thousands of lives. 

‘Sherlock,’ John murmured, catching the other man’s attention, ‘I know you. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, I just do. I’ve met you before, haven’t I? When I was young?’ 

‘When we were both young,’ said Sherlock, ‘and I know. I know you, but I do not remember how.’ 

‘I might know where you’re from, right?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Sherlock, ‘you might know where my home is. What Moriarty took from me.’ 

‘I will remember. I think.’ 

Sherlock looked up at him, now, hope brewing in those brilliant eyes. ‘I hope so, John.’ 

John grinned down at the abrasive, affectionate man, something rising in his chest. It was a warm feeling, completely separate from the warmth of the day, and filling his heart and mind with hope for the future. Leaning across, a little, he pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s, now able to get a much better look in the depths of those shifting eyes. 

Sherlock’s breath ghosted across his lips, his eyes fixed on John’s in anticipation of what was to come. 

‘I’ve only just met you,’ John whispered, ‘but I feel like I’ve known you all my life.’ 

‘While that is eminently impossible,’ replied Sherlock, ‘I have the same odd, illogical sense. I know more than I should about you, John Watson. I know where you are from, I know what you looked like as a young boy, and as a young man, and as a soldier, and I should not. I am clever, I can deduce these things, but the talent is not without limit, and I am certainly only limited to the present and immediate past.’ 

John grinned. ‘Don’t try to logic it, Sherlock, just bask in the moment, would you?’ 

Sherlock grimaced, but it was superficial. Underneath, John could tell that he was just as swept up in the moment as John was. ‘There has to be an explanation, John.’ 

‘No,’ replied John, ‘there doesn’t. Not necessarily. Sometimes, Sherlock, there are people who meet each other and just fit. They meet, and they know who the other is _because_ it is logical.’ 

‘No, it is not!’ Sherlock replied, indignant. John laughed, and Sherlock looked pleased that he had evoked that reaction in John, a happy flush suffusing his cheeks. 

‘Sometimes, Sherlock, it just is.’ 

Their foreheads still pressed together, John could see those eyes, the full depths of them. And he knew. 

Because it simply was logical. Because it was the only conclusion. 

And it was going to happen soon. If not now, then soon. They were like the lines of a triangle approaching the corner. Drawing closer and closer and closer, and at some point in the future, they would touch.

John didn’t think it was going to be now. 

He could see in Sherlock’s eyes that he wasn’t ready yet. He wasn’t ready to start anything. 

He was still trapped under the thumb of the ghostly vulture living at the top of the bath-house, the spider and the bug trapped in its web. So that time wasn’t now, but John could, for a moment, see the future. He could see what they were coming to, and suddenly, while he knew he had to wait for not only Sherlock to be ready, but for himself, as well, he couldn’t. 

Not for a second longer. 

Satisfying some deep urge that he didn’t know he had until a moment ago, he pressed a delicate kiss to one cheekbone, and then to a pale forehead, and then to a pile of messy curls, before bringing his eyes back to gaze at Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, in equal recognition of what had just happened, an even brighter, healthy glow suffusing his cheeks even more. Shyly, Sherlock looked away, demure, if that was at all possible, before returning his gaze to John’s. 

In those shifting eyes was a recognition of what to come. An understanding that those lines were going to meet, to cross, at some point, and wind together. And that Sherlock was anticipating that moment with figurative bated breath. 

It was like the promise of fresh water after a month in a desert, or the sight of food after forty days and forty nights of starvation. 

‘John,’ Sherlock said, softly. 

‘Sherlock.’ John’s reply was equally soft, recognition, and wonder, playing in his voice. ‘How are you real?’ 

It was an honest question. Sherlock seemed almost like a figment of his imagination, a magical, incredible creature who would vanish upon a single blink. 

It made John clutch at Sherlock tighter, something which Sherlock seemed to equally approve of, as he dug his fingers deeper into John’s shirt, clinging tightly. 

Their foreheads pressed, if possible, closer, and their lips were just a hair’s breadth away, their breaths shared, now. John felt almost like he was breathing life into the other man, breathing for him, and keeping air in his lungs, yet equally felt like he was being saved by the creature in his arms, breathed for and having life poured into him by this man’s vibrant soul. 

‘I will remember, I promise you,’ John whispered, ‘I will remember your home. I will take you back there.’ 

Sherlock didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. All his thanks was in those brilliant, shifting eyes, and that was enough for John. All the promises, in return, he could see. The promise to help his sister. The promise to help John out of here, and see him home safely. The promise not to leave him, not if it was possible to stay by his side. 

And that was enough, for now. 

It wouldn’t be for much longer, but for now, it was. Their time was coming, soon, and that was okay. That was good. That was damn near _perfect,_ in John’s mind. 

‘John,’ Sherlock was suddenly clinging tighter to John’s shirt, his hand fisted in the soft material by John’s heart. ‘John, he’s calling for me.’ 

‘How do you know?’ John clutched at Sherlock, tighter now.

‘I just do. I can feel it … inside me, tugging me to him. He knows we’re here. He knows. He wants me to do it now. He wants me to go.’ 

‘Can’t you resist, somehow? Can’t you stop it?’ 

Sherlock was becoming paler, and paler, by the second. 

‘I can’t stop it, John, I can’t.’ 

‘Sherlock, it’s okay. It’s okay, just stay calm.’ Sherlock was practically vibrating in his arms. ‘Go to him. Do what you have to do, and come back to me, okay?’ 

He brought Sherlock up to standing, just as Sherlock began to transform. 

‘I promise, John,’ Sherlock replied, when he could, ‘I promise I’ll come back here. I’ll come and find you.’ 

‘If you need me,’ John said, ‘I’ll wait for you. Just come back whole, alright?’ 

Sherlock had completely transformed, and John leaned forwards, pressing his face into that smooth muzzle, against the soft, lightly curled fur of the snout. ‘You will be alright, I promise.’ 

Gently, he released Sherlock’s muzzle. Sherlock bumped against him one more time, and then curled around John, before springing away. John followed him as best he could, brushing his hands along Sherlock’s flanks as Sherlock took a run up to take off. 

As he shot through the grass beside Sherlock, he watched the dragon’s powerful muscles flex, then launch Sherlock high up into the air. Sherlock roared, overhead, shooting around John once. 

John stood in the middle of the now empty field, watching Sherlock fly off towards the top floor of the bath-house, wind whipping the flower heads around him into a frenzy, sunlight bathing his body in brilliance, as he watched his dragon flicker powerfully in the air. Sherlock arched around the bath-house, and was gone.

With a sigh, and a last fond moment to bask in what had happened between himself and Sherlock, John turned, and walked back through the hedge. Even from this far off, he could hear the sounds of the workers waking, so John braced himself for another night’s work. 


	7. Chapter 7

Greg was already beginning to stir from his sleep as John made his way back into the room, rolling over and grunting. John took a seat next to him on his own mattress, pretending that he had also just awoken, just as Greg sat up, and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. 

‘John,’ Greg greeted, nodding his head. John staged a yawn, before returning the greeting in kind. 

Greg grinned at him, kneeling, and beginning to fold up his blankets and pillow. John quickly moved to follow suit. 

‘So,’ Greg said, conversationally, ‘where did you go this time?’ 

John, shocked, dropped the pile of blankets that he had gathered up, and looked around, in a panic. The other workers had already awoken for the day, and were ignoring him and Greg, to his relief. ‘Wha… what do you mean?’ John blustered. 

Greg laughed atJohn’s befuddled expression. ‘Come on, John, I’m not an idiot. I know you left earlier today. I was awake when you walked out.’ 

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said John, trying to shrug it off nonchalantly. ‘I was a soldier. I get nightmares.’ 

‘Nope,’ Greg grinned, ‘try again.’ 

John remained silent, quickly pulling together his bedding once more, and packing it into the basket just above his head. 

Greg sighed. ‘I’m not going to turn you in, John. I’m your friend, and that isn’t what friends do. I just want to know. I’m nosy like that, I guess.’ 

John laughed. ‘I promise, it’s nothing much. Just going to see my sister.’ It wasn’t a complete lie. 

‘Ah,’ nodded Greg, ‘understandable, I s’pose.’ John smiled, looking away, and feeling more than a little guilty at the omission of truth, but ignored it in favour of pushing his mattress away, clearing the floor. 

He then followed Greg out of the bedroom, getting ready to start the working day … or night. The buckets were, as they had been the evening previous, lined up by the curtain, and Molly was waiting there, as well, bucket in hand, and grinning at the two of them. 

‘Come on, you lazy men,’ she said, waving her bucket, ‘we’re on scrub duty upstairs all evening.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Greg, smiling, ‘that’s great!’ 

John looked over at him, in confusion. ‘Why?’ 

‘Scrub duty upstairs is way easier than cleaning the baths for customers,’ replied Greg, ‘Guess the foreman must be happy with the job that we did last night and is giving us the easier job tonight.’ 

John nodded, following in Greg’s lead as he grabbed a bucket, and a scrubber attached to a long, wooden pole. ‘So what does scrub duty actually involve?’ he asked, as greg led the three of them over to where the workers’ lift was already half-full with other cleaners. 

‘Well,’ said Greg, ‘it just means that we have to go up to the second floor and scrub the dining rooms ready for the customers, then, as the customers leave, we have to clean them out again. There are groups of customers who come in after their baths for meals, and stuff, and then after they leave, more customers want to come in, so we have to clean out the muck between each lot of ‘em.’ 

John nodded, ‘that sounds like it’s pretty easy.’ 

‘Oh, it is,’ nodded Molly, as she gestured for them to all leave the life behind Greg. The cleaners were already flowing out, groups of cleaners breaking off to do the different dining rooms. ‘The customers generally stay for quite a while, so we often get time to just chat between each group. We’re assigned to five of the rooms at a time, so we only have to clean those five between customers.’ 

Greg was moving towards where John assumed the dining rooms that they were going to be cleaning were, and, just like the previous night, they set to work scrubbing out one of them, elbow grease required. ‘So,’ said Molly, after a moment, ‘why do you reckon the foreman assigned it to us today? Usually he hates you, Greg.’ 

‘I guess it’s cause John here did such a good job yesterday with that river-spirit. That’s what I said before, anyway.’ 

Molly nodded, ‘guess that could be it. It’s just a bit weird, isn’t it?’ 

Greg hummed. ‘Don’t question it, Molls. Just do it, I reckon.’ 

Together, they continued to clean for a little while longer in silence, before John could contain his curiosity no longer. ‘Molly,’ he asked, ‘what kind of spirit are you? Sorry, if that’s offensive to ask.’ 

‘No, no worries,’ replied Molly, ‘it’s not offensive at all. I’m actually a mountain spirit. Can’t remember which mountain, of course, but I think it’s probably gone now. But yeah, that’s me, mountain spirit.’ 

John smiled. ‘Well, you never know,’ he said, ‘It might still be there. Do you want to leave?’ 

‘Actually,’ she replied, ‘no. Moriarty doesn’t really care about me, so he doesn’t bother me at all. I like it here — it makes me feel like I have a purpose, and I enjoy the work that I do. It might seem strange to you guys, but I have friends here, I have food here, and I have a nice place to sleep anda roof over my head, and that’s honestly enough for me.’’ 

‘But … but…’ stammered John, astonished at the notion that Molly actually enjoyed it here. 

‘John,’ she said, leaning back from where she had been bent on all fours, scrubbing at a particularly nasty bit of cabbage worked into the floor, ‘have you actually thought about it particularly hard? If you didn’t have your sister and your home to go back to, if you weren’t searching for someone like Greg wants to be, if all you wanted was a bit of a purpose and a roof over your head, and fairly tasty food in front of you, then is this place truly so bad?’ 

John blinked. He hadn’t really thought about it from Molly’s perspective, but he supposed that he could see what she meant. The other girl didn’t really have anywhere to call home, and she didn’t have something that she particularly wanted or needed to do, and it seemed like she really was happy where she was, and John couldn’t begrudge her that. 

‘Don’t you ever wonder, though, Molls,’ asked Greg, ‘whether you actually have a mountain to call your home? Whether or not you have something or someone to search for?’ 

‘Not really,’ replied Molly, ‘I just… know, somehow, that this is where I want to be.’ 

‘I bet that’s in no small part to a certain evil henchman,’ Greg teased. Molly blushed, right to the roots of her mousy brown hair. 

‘Well,’ she replied, ‘only a little bit. I live in hope for the day that he actually realises I exist, but what I said isn’t affected by that.’ 

‘Who?’ asked John, slightly clueless, ‘Sherlock?’ 

‘Who else?’ grinned Greg, ‘Molly has had a simply enormous crush o Mr Evil Incarnate for as long as I’ve known her.’ 

‘He isn’t evil incarnate,’ defended John. Greg smiled. 

‘Like you would know,’ he replied, ‘Have you actually met Sherlock? You know, the one with curly brown hair. He was the one next to Moriarty, the one who magicked away the gold last night.’ 

‘Yes, yes,’ insisted John, ‘I have met him. He helped me to get a job here so I could stay and not be turned into a pig.’ 

‘Yeah, right,’ scoffed Greg, ‘as if _he_ would help you.’ 

‘He did,’ insisted John.

Greg and Moly had both paused in their scrubbing, and were looking at John with disbelief in their eyes. ‘John,’ Molly said, gently, ‘I know I have a crush on the man, but even I know that Sherlock isn’t kind.’ 

‘Yeah,’ agreed Greg, ‘He wouldn’t help you. He just doesn’t do that.’ 

‘How do you know?’ John asked, rhetorically, before returning to his scrubbing. 

Everyone seemed to have such a bad opinion of Sherlock. Whatever it was that Moriarty had done to him, whether it was cast a spell over him, or somehow coerce him into obeying him, it had made everyone despise him. John couldn’t fault them for it, either — from what he had seen of Sherlock inside the bath-house, he was nasty, and cold. 

It was so far removed from the Sherlock John knew, and John had to briefly ask himself why. Why him? 

Pushing the thought out of his mind, John returned to his scrubbing, carefully rubbing soap into the floor, and wiping away muck. He ignored the eyes that were still staring at him, and eventually, both Greg and Molly returned to the job that they were doing. 

Until a frog stepped through the door of their particular dining room, it’s bowed legs rendering it at a height just below John’s navel. They all looked up at it, but both Molly and John dismissed it as nothing, while Greg got to his feet, wiping his hands on the front of his uniform, before approaching the toad at the curtain. 

‘Can I help you, Jeffrey?’ Greg asked of the frog. 

The frog nodded. ‘Hello, Lestrade,’ it said, in arather croaky voice, almost begrudgingly. ‘This doesn’t concern you.’ 

‘Oh?’ asked Greg, ‘then who does it concern?’ 

‘Moriarty wants to see John Watson. Now.’ 

John felt the blood in his veins freeze to ice, at that. He stopped what he was doing, silently, not daring to breathe, in the illogical hope that perhaps the frog would just go away if he was quiet enough. 

No such luck, as the frog directly hopped into the room, pausing behind where John was on the floor. ‘Watson!’ the frog barked, oddly enough, ‘Moriarty has sent for you. You’re to go right up, and I suggest you don’t dally, or he’ll turn you into a pig, just like your sister. Not my problem, though.’ 

With a cruel laugh, the frog hopped off, straight back out the curtain from whom he had emerged. 

There was a beat of silence, before Greg spoke. ‘I agree with the stupid toad,’ said Greg, ‘I really think you should go see what it is that Moriarty wants from you.’ 

John got to his feet, rather reluctantly. For a moment, he entertained the thought of just running, but couldn’t help the nasty feeling that it just wouldn’t work. 

‘I don’t want to,’ he said, ‘I don’t really want to know what Moriarty has planned for me. Something tells me that it’s going to be unpleasant.’ 

‘You’re probably right there,’ said Greg, nodding. 

‘Just go, John. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Molly was smiling reassuringly, leaning against her mop. ‘We’ll be here waiting for you when you get back.’ 

Oddly reassured by that, John steeled his nerves, and stepped out of the room, Greg patting him on the back just before he left. Outside, in the hallway between the dining rooms, cleaners were rushing back and forth. The lifts were also packed with people, cleaners, hosts and cooks alike, but none seemed to be going up past this level. John resigned himself to taking the stairs, and turned in the opposite direction from the lifts, heading towards where he thought he might have seen the stairwell, before. 

Stepping through the masses of workers, John pushed his way towards the other end of the corridor, where, to his fortune, he spotted a stairwell that looked like it would head all the way up to the top of the bath-house. 

However, before he could make it all the way to the stairs, he was stopped by a hand on his arm. 

Turning, John saw that it was the young woman he had seen before, the one who had approached him last night, with the curly blonde hair, and kind blue eyes. She was short, he realised, she only just came up to where his eyes were. He hadn’t noticed that, last night. 

She was smiling at him, friendly in a kind way. 

‘Hi, John,’ she said, enthusiastically, ‘do you remember me?’ 

‘Hello,’ John greeted, in return, smiling vaguely, already preoccupied with the thought of what it was that Moriarty wanted to say to him. He could barely remember the blonde’s name, to be honest. 

Maddy? Maggie? Mary. Mary, that was it. 

‘Hello, Mary,’ he said, again, ‘how are you?’ 

‘I’m great, thanks,’ she replied, ‘how are you?’ 

‘Yeah… fine…’ John mumbled, looking past her to where the staircase was, winding up to the top level of the bath-house. 

‘That’s great,’ Mary was saying, ‘you know, it was so good to meet you last night, and I thought what you did was so brave, so I was thinking that if you wanted to… I don’t know … maybe on one of our days off… we could go into the town… or something…’ 

‘Yeah…’ John said, completely distracted, ‘yeah, great.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Mary, surprised. John looked at her, confused as to why she was surprised. He hadn’t been paying attention to anything that she had been saying. 

‘Sorry, what?’ 

Mary looked completely deflated, and John immediately turned his full attention to the other blonde, ashamed for his distraction. 

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I was just saying that maybe we could go and get dinner on a day off sometime, together.’ 

‘Oh,’ John replied, honestly surprised at what she was saying. It seemed like she was asking him out on a date. As if she was actually interested in him. It was a strange feeling. 

John had been used to his fair share of… for lack of a better word… conquests, particularly in his army days. Three Continents Watson, that was what Bill had called him, but after his gunshot, it truly had felt like those days were over. He hadn’t felt desired, truly wanted, until… until Sherlock. 

And Sherlock hadn’t asked for dinner. 

Really, he hadn’t had a chance to. 

He didn’t have time to contemplate that, right at this moment. 

‘I’m sorry,’ John said, ‘Mary, I can’t talk about this right now. I have to go. Moriarty has asked to see me.’ 

Mary immediately looked more hopeful, and John truly felt terrible at the fact that he was seemingly leading her on. He knew, now, that it really couldn’t go anywhere with her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t bring himself to pop her bubble right this instant. Not when he didn’t have enough time or patience to let her down easy. 

‘Oh, right,’ she was saying, ‘sorry, I didn’t realise. Probably busy, right? So maybe I’ll just ask you later, okay?’ 

‘Ah… sure,’ John replied, unsure. But it seemed to satisfy her, because, with one final smile at him, one smile that made him feel immeasurably guilty, she moved off, allowing him past so that he could go and walk over to the staircase.

The staircase itself was small and narrow, and John immediately felt claustrophobic. It felt like there suddenly wasn’t enough air for his lungs in the small space, but John just chalked that up to nerves, and moved up the steps. It also smelt a little funny, stale and musty, as if there wasn’t any ventilation. 

There probably wasn’t, thinking about it. 

The next floor that John reached didn’t look like Moriarty’s floor, so he just continued upwards. 

As he continued, the staircase got darker, the wall sconces more liberally spaced, and not providing enough light for him to see by. Nevertheless, he soon came to a long, purple, sheer curtain that looked like it belonged on Moriarty’s floor, and the staircase continued upwards no further. 

John pushed through the curtain, letting it flow neatly to one side before closing behind him, as he stepped into the quiet, dim, tiled hallway. He almost swore that it was more lavish than he remembered, the detailed tiling patterns on the floor elaborate and careful, and a breeze flowing in through the now open curtain. The sky outside was dark, and the air smelt a little damp, so John thought it might be misting down with water. 

To verify this, John stepped past the lifts, and to where the balcony curtains had been pushed aside, carefully making his way out to the balcony. The fresh air washed over his face, and the sound of water lapping far below had him gazing down to where it was crashing darkly against the base of the cliffs. 

He had been right. Water was gently sheeting down outside, not so much that it could be considered actual rain, but he knew that if he stood outside in it for too long, he would end up being soaked through to the core. 

Stepping back inside, John approached the doors leading into Moriarty’s suite with nothing but trepidation boiling in the pit of his belly, and hunger. With a start, he realised that he hadn’t eaten since the pastries last night, and that he really was hungry. 

Of course, he would also remember this at the perfect time for him to assuage this hunger. This was thought with maximum sarcasm. 

Ignoring his hunger and steeling his nerves. John did not make the same mistake as last time, and lifted his hand to rap the large, creepy door knocker against the wood. 

It rung out in the silent hallway like a death knell. 

Everything was still. Even straining, John couldn’t hear anything from beyond the door. Reaching for the knob, he was about to turn it, when, all of a sudden, the doors slammed open, and the same tug that he had felt last time tugged behind his navel. 

It shot him forwards, skating his feet across the elegant tiles, and the carpet, and then tiles again. Through rooms and curtains he shot, flailing slightly, until he came to the same study as before. He stopped, s quickly that the force of it threw him forwards, and he landed flat on his face, his nose pounding into the tiled floor. 

John cursed, rubbing his nose as he pushed himself upright, trying to face the slimy man in the room. 

Moriarty himself was leaning against the desk, just as he had been when John had last come here, an almost fascinated expression on his face. It was so far removed from what John had seen last time, that he was caught off guard, unable to form any sort of emotional response to what it was that he was seeing. 

Immediately, Moriarty’s face transformed into a sneer, his lips curling nastily around the edges. 

John bit his lip, wanting to look away but not allowing himself to, not letting himself show that weakness. Defiantly, he stared back at Moriarty, whose dead eyes just regarded him, cooly. 

‘Not even going to say hello, Johnny-boy? How disappointing.’ 

‘Hello,’ retorted John. 

Moriarty grinned that sick grin of his, the one that made John want to deck him straight in the face. 

‘So much fire!’ he sung, liltingly. He sighed, almost happily, ‘It’s so refreshing to see. So entertaining.’ 

Stepping forwards, Moriarty paced towards John like some sort of jungly cat, reaching out his fingers to brush reverently over John’s face. ‘And…. and yet, I don’t understand it. You’re so _boring!_ So ordinary! So…. human.’ 

John leaned back, ducked out the way of Moriarty’s reaching fingertips, but Moriarty just tutted, and flicked a finger. 

Again, just like last time, John found that he had been frozen completely in place, his limbs locked by his sides, and his neck fixed in place, preventing him from ducking out the way as Moriarty brushed long fingers across his cheeks. ‘I don’t understand,’ laughed Moriarty, ‘I truly don’t. What is it that Sherlock sees in you, little human?’ 

Something John himself had been asking. Not that Moriarty needed to know that. 

Moriarty’s silky fingers continued to run over John’s face, running up past his eye, almost as if the man was going to try and poke at them, before dropping back down to John’s chest. 

Slowly, Moriarty tucked a single hand inside John’s loose clothing, and John actually did feel the bile rise in his throat, at that. He had no idea what Moriarty was thinking, as the other man ran his fingers across the small amount of skin that he had bared. 

Suddenly, in a burst of movement, Moriarty sprung away from John, whirling back to his desk, where he plucked a handkerchief out of one drawer, and wiped it across the hand he had used to touch John’s bare skin. It was almost as if he was cleaning John off of himself, in disgust. 

To John, it was a relief. It let him know that Moriarty wasn’t contemplating anything else — that whatever he was thinking was down the route that John could handle, psychologically. He was certain that he could handle other… things. Even torture, perhaps. 

But the thought of other things, horrible things, made his mind immediately recoil in horror and disgust, and he didn’t want to even think of them, like Moriarty would be able to read his mind and perpetrate those thoughts, just for the hell of it. 

Deep down, something told John that he wasn’t really the victim of this. He wasn’t the one that this was aimed at. Somehow, this was aimed at Sherlock, at hurting Sherlock. Moriarty knew, somehow, what Sherlock meant to him, and what he meant to Sherlock, and was trying to hurt them both. Like he was able to read their minds, somehow. 

John despised that thought. 

He hated the thought that those private things, private moments between himself and Sherlock also had been shared with Moriarty. Those things were _his,_ goddamnit. His and Sherlock’s. That time in the field, earlier today, was just him and Sherlock. The time at Angelo’s, his and Sherlock’s. That wasn’t for Moriarty to take, and John could do nothing but sit there and take it, and hate the fact that in this, he was completely powerless. 

‘Don’t you just hate it, Johnny-boy,’ Moriarty hissed, peering at John as if he knew what had been playing through John’s mind just a moment ago, ‘Don’t you despise the thought that I know?’ 

John wanted to do nothing more than open his mouth and reply. Wanted to do nothing more than reach out and wrap fingers around Moriarty’s neck, punish him for what he had done to Sherlock, to Greg, and even to Molly, to some extent. 

He wanted to punish Moriarty for whatever had happened to make something like this, for taking away his sister, and his home. For taking away Sherlock’s independence, bending that perfect, unbendable man to his will. Forcing him into a mould that the abrasive man, he knew now, just didn’t fit. And for Greg.

Poor Greg, who had forgotten what seemed like the other half of his soul. Who had nowhere to belong. 

Not to mention Greg’s nameless man. The one who remembered him, but likely had to live in the knowledge that Greg had no idea who he was, or where he was. 

It was an awful fate to relegate to anyone, and yet Moriarty had seemingly done it, without batting an eyelid. John couldn’t imagine what that was like, not at all. Being able to rip someone’s home from them, taking away what made them _them._ And not feeling anything. Not feeling an ounce of regret, lacking any sort of empathy for a fellow being, human or not. 

‘Because of course I know,’ Moriarty continued. ‘I know everything that happens in this bath-house. I know you’ve been leaving, Johnny-boy. I know you’ve been going out with my little pet. But, don’t forget, Johnny-boy, you belong to me.’ 

Moriarty drew something out of the top drawer of his desk, waving it around in front of John almost mockingly. John realised, quickly, that it was his contract, the one that he had signed in order to work here. 

‘You signed this, Johnny-boy. You should have known what that meant. It means that you are mine, and that you will always be mine. You can’t escape. I allow you to go to your sister, I allow you to leave this place, but I could stop you, if I wanted to.’ 

There was complete silence, while John struggled in his invisible bonds. Moriarty watched on, amused, his eyes dancing with hollow mirth. John shook, and shuddered with the effort of just trying to open his mouth, until Moriarty flicked out a finger. 

To his relief, this released his bonds, and he was finally free to actually speak, only to find that his words had entirely left him. 

‘What’s the matter, Johnny-boy?’ mocked Moriarty, ‘nothing to say? Pity.’ 

‘I have something to say,’ replied John, determined now, ‘You’re a monster.’ 

Moriarty actually threw back his head and laughed. ‘How haven’t you worked this out yet, Johnny-boy? All the spirits are monsters, by your standards. At least, none of us are human. The Spirit World works differently than your piddly little human world. Here, deals and prices and wagers are everything. Good and evil don’t exist. I am no worse than your friend Lestrade, who is no worse than little Molly Hooper. And Sherlock….ah… Sherlock. No finer monster have I ever seen.’ 

‘You’re wrong,’ said John, defiantly, ‘I have seen the worst that humans can be. I fought in a war. I saw people shot down. I know that humans can often be monsters, far more inhuman than good people, like those you have working here in this bath-house.’ 

Moriarty shook his head, sighing dramatically, mockingly. ‘The courage of the little tin soldier.’ 

‘Why did you bring me here, Moriarty?’ John sighed, tired now, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He attempted to brush Moriarty off. 

This terror was completely unfounded, really. Enough. 

‘If you’re going to kill me,’ he said, ‘why don’t you just do it?’ 

‘Don’t tempt me,’ hissed the shadow of the bath-house, ‘it’s so… tempting. I can’t wait to see the expression on dear Sherlock’s face when his toy is broken.’ 

‘But you’re not going to do it,’ John said, surprised at his own daring, ‘you’re not going to.’ 

Moriarty said nothing. 

That was the only indication that John had that he had actually hit something there. That there was something… something that was stopping Moriarty from actually killing him. 

It wasn’t ability. The man was surely strong enough to do it, he had magic, for christ’s sake. 

Moriarty did speak, then. He shrugged, falsely nonchalant. ‘I could, you’re right, Johnny-boy. I could strike you down where you stand.’ 

‘Then why don’t you?’ John said, wagering with his own life on whatever it was that had been keeping him alive for so long so far. 

‘Because…’ replied Moriarty, ‘because this is all just. so. amusing. It is so much fun!’ 

John grit his teeth against the new urge to clock Moriarty in the face. 

‘I already know that this is going to be _awesome._ ’ 

Moriarty’s grin was savage, as he waved at John. 

John knew that was likely the only prompting that he was going to get to leave, so he took his leave with gladness, accompanied by Moriarty’s rolling, riling laughter as he walked back the way that he had come. 

On his way back, the stairs were almost welcoming to him, taking him down into the more homely feeling lower levels. They smelt just as musty as they had before, but so relieved was he to be leaving the upstairs of the bath-house that he barely noticed. 

Skipping down the stairs, he almost passed straight through the spirit that was waiting there for him. 

Unfortunately, there was no mistaking that childlike mask, its features smiling innocently at him, wide blue eyes like something out of a cartoon. 

‘Oh,’ jumped John, ‘you scared me.’ 

Taking a deep breath, he looked over the spirit who he had almost passed all the way through, noticing that it seemed as tall as ever, and as expressionless as ever as well. 

Taking a step back, John blinked, before nodding at the spirit. 

‘Thank you for helping me last night,’ he said, thanking the spirit again. 

The spirit just bowed its head in return, but aside from that, no other expression was shown on its face. 

John decided that it must be fairly safe to move past the odd-looking spirit, so, pressing himself to the wall of the staircase, he tried to edge his way past, clinging to the rail like his life depended on it. 

Before he could, the spirit stuck out a hand. 

Piled on top of it were some of the small pastries he had eaten the night previous.

It made his stomach rumble and grumble in protest, reminding him that he really hadn’t eaten for some time. John peered carefully at the food that was being offered to him, but abruptly, he remembered what Moriarty had told him about the Spirit World. 

If he took what the spirit was offering, would the spirit expect something else in return? He had no idea, to be honest. 

The spirit was now making the same soft noises that it had last time; ‘ _Ah, Ah,’_ the spirit was insisting. John wondered, blindly, if the spirit understood that he couldn’t comprehend what it was saying. 

In the spirit’s hands, the little pastries were shaking slightly, as the spirit offered them to him. 

‘No thank you,’ John said, holding up a hand to stop the spirit, ‘I’m not hungry.’ 

_‘Ah, Ah,’_ repeated the spirit, more insistent now. 

John had to shake his head, again. ‘No, I don’t want any.’ 

_‘Ah…’_ sighed the spirit, as he began to fade away from view, taking the pastries with him. 

Shaking his head, in confusion, John passed through where the spirit had been standing just a moment previous, and back down the stairs. The second floor was now empty of people, and the curtains were shut. From behind them, John could make out the sounds of customers talking, laughing and eating. 

‘Psst, John!’ called Molly, from a corner near to the dining room that they had been cleaning earlier. 

John looked over to see Molly sticking her head out from around the corner, and gesturing for him to join her. Stepping over, John smiled at her reassuringly, and followed her around. 

Just behind the corner, Greg was sitting on an upturned bucket, behind a crate that had also been turned over to make a sort of table. To his relief, piled on the table, was what looked like a pot of soup, and some bread. 

Molly sat down on her own bucket to the left of Greg, and gestured to the upturned bucket opposite her. 

‘Please, Mr Watson,’ Greg said, his voice falsely posh and fancy, ‘take a seat, and enjoy the finest gruel that this excellent establishment has on offer. It was given five stars by he famous Chef Rousseau!’ 

Molly and John both burst into laughter at what Greg was saying, grinning as he dished out the soup to all of them. The gruel was just that, gruel, slightly unappetising in colour, but John found that he was so hungry that it didn’t matter what it was. 

The bread was the same, slightly unappetising in looks, and rock hard, but when he dipped it into his soup, it did puff out a little. The soup didn’t really taste of anything, and the bread tasted like cardboard, but John found that he didn’t care. It was filling his belly, and that was really what mattered the most. 

‘So,’ said Greg, after a moment, around his mouthful of food, ‘what did Moriarty say to you?’ 

John shook his head, not particularly wanting to digress, but Molly patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, John,’ she said, ‘you can trust us.’ 

‘It wasn’t anything major,’ John elaborated, after a moment, ‘he was just threatening me in general, really. And he told me that he knows I’ve been leaving the bath-house during the day.’ 

‘You have?’ Molly asked, surprised, raising an eyebrow, her spoon freezing halfway to her mouth. 

‘Yeah,’ nodded John. ‘I’ve just been visiting my sister, that’s all.’ 

‘Oh, okay,’ nodded Molly, just as Greg had. ‘That’s understandable.’ 

‘I wonder why he’s taken such an interest in you,’ mused Greg, ‘it’s kinda unusual, don’t you reckon, Molls?’ 

‘I suppose,’ replied Molly, briefly. ‘I would think that it’s because John’s a human.’ 

‘Well, it’s not like Moriarty’s never seen a human before.’ said Greg. 

John tried to ignore their conversation, as they moved onto other subjects, just focusing on eating his food. Not that it really counted as food, by any sort of definition. 

Just then, a small bell next to them rung, and Greg and Molly both looked up from what they were eating, setting their bowls down. 

‘Come on, Greg, John, I think it’s one of ours.’ Molly said, getting to her feet and grabbing the bucket and scrubber. Greg followed suit, a little more slowly. Molly had already gone round the corner when John took one last sip, and moved to follow.

Greg held out a hand, for a moment, though. 

‘You alright, mate?’ he asked, briefly. 

John nodded, even though on reflection he did feel more than a little shaken by what had happened with Moriarty. Greg sighed. 

‘Look, mate, Moriarty’s a creepy bugger, I’ll give you that. Here,’ he gestured to a basket over in the far corner of their little nook, ‘I was going to go do this, but I think you should. That’s the basket of food for Mrs Hudson and her soot balls. Why don’t you go down and give it to her, and I’ll stay and help Molly clean? You look like you could use the break.’ 

Not wanting to really show how much he needed, John grinned gratefully, and thumped Greg on the back, ‘Thanks, mate, I’ll go do that.’ 

Greg just nodded and smiled, and then brushed around the corner to follow after Molly. 

After a moment to collect himself, John stepped over and grabbed the basket, before also leaving the nook. 

From there, if he remembered rightly, it was just a short distance to Mrs Hudson’s. He just popped into the now empty lift, and went all the way down to the kitchens on the bottom floor. 

Bustling with brightly coloured amphibians, the kitchens were abuzz with activity. John ducked past them, heading for the curtain to the boiler room that he remembered from earlier on, pushing through to the welcome sight of Mrs Hudson grinding away, and the tiny soot balls dancing around. 

‘Mrs Hudson, hi!’ John said, trying to sound as happy as he could as he greeted the spidery looking woman. 

She turned, pausing inn her work to smile kindly at John, ‘Hello, dear, how are you?’ 

‘Fine, thanks, and yourself?’ replied John, setting down the basket and drawing out the bowl of food and soup for Mrs Hudson, who took it gratefully in one of her abnormally long limbs. 

‘Better now, thank you, dear,’ she replied, taking a sip from the soup bowl before returning to work. ‘Where’s Greg?’ 

‘I’m doing this for him today,’ John replied, attempting to stay vague about it. It was no use. Mrs Hudson turned, and looked him over with a more critical eye, her elderly face kind and welcoming. 

‘Oh, dear, you look a little pale,’ she said, raising a hand to pinch at one of his cheeks. John looked away. 

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson.’ 

‘Oh, if that nasty Sherlock has been at you, dear, I’ll have his guts for garters!’ 

‘What?’ John yelped, surprised, ‘no, it’s just Moriarty being creepy. Nothing like that.’ 

‘I understand that,’ Mrs Hudson said, ‘he is quite the piece of work, isn’t he, dear?’ 

John smiled at her. ‘That he is, Mrs Hudson.’ 

‘And you and Sherlock?’ 

John simply had to blush, and turn his face away, and Mrs Hudson grinned, happily at that. 

‘Excellent, dear. So excellent.’ 


	8. Chapter 8

John awoke that day to complete confusion. 

The bedroom was bare of people. Next to him, Greg’s mattress was empty, as were everyone else’s mattresses and blankets. Midday sun beamed in through the window, the curtains blowing in to allow a soft breeze to diffuse through the room. The floor was covered in empty mattresses, all stacked one beside the other, bedclothes bunched up and strewn about as if the occupants had been in a rush. 

Outside, in the corridor, there were people rushing about. He could hear the sounds of the kitchens already working hard, pleasant smell drifting into the room. 

Taking a deep breath, John pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand over his bare chest, and the other over his eyes to clear them of the sleep that had gathered there. He pushed his covers down to by his feet, crawling upright to inspect the room more closely. 

It seemed like everyone had been in a huge rush as they left — bedsheets were sprawled everywhere and trampled upon, and articles of clothing were tangled amongst the bedsheets. Patting Greg’s sleeping spot, John realised that it was slightly cool, betraying the fact that Greg hadn’t slept in it for a while. 

Standing, John quickly moved over the mattresses to the open window, peering out into the midday sun. 

Far beneath him, water was lapping against the base of the cliffs, the sea clear, shallow and transparent enough hat he could make out the grasses wavering under the water. He could also, if he squinted, make out the shapes of tiny little fish darting back and forth, and plucking away at the grasses beneath the water. 

Out on the water, the whistle of the train’s steam engine passing by could be heard, echoing across the water and reaching John’s ears. The train was letting out a large cloud of steam, releasing it so that it puffed up into the air to dissipate into the white, fluffy clouds that skated across the sky. 

As the train drew closer, John could hear the rattling of the wheels passing over the track, clacking and clattering with the sound of metal across wood and more metal. Yet it was muffled, due to the water, and the additional sound of water lapping against the train, and being stirred about by the motion of the train also echoed across the water. 

In the light of day, John tried to peer closer at the train, attempting to see through the tiny windows. Unfortunately, it seemed like he was too far away to make anything real out, but he could have sworn that he saw a few shadows pass by the windows. 

The train moved fairly quickly across, and John followed it with his eyes as it headed towards the edge of his field of view. It continued on, another horn sounding as it approached some far off station, until John couldn’t see it anymore. 

John wandered over to where his shirt was hanging over the marble balcony balustrade, drying after he had cleaned it last night. Tugging it free, he pulled it over his head, and quickly knotted it around his waist, then rubbed at his eyes once more to try and clean the last of the sleep from his eyes. 

He wondered, then, where everyone had gone. Still half-asleep, and in a bit of a daze, he couldn’t really process entirely the fact that it seemed like everyone had up and disappeared, if it wasn’t for the fact that there were people rushing about just outside the curtain. 

That was when he spotted it. 

Immediately awake, he saw it shooting across the top of the water, towards the bath-house, he could just make out a tiny black form that, as it drew closer, John realised was Sherlock. The dragon was twisting and twining through the air at a very quick pace, almost twitching and writhing like he was in pain. 

Sherlock darted up, away from the water, pursued by what looked like tiny clouds of … something. John couldn’t quite make out what it was, at this distance, and stepped closer to the edge of the balcony, leaning over so that he could try and get a closer look at whatever it was that was plaguing Sherlock. 

Sherlock was heading straight upwards, now, on an angle so that he was getting closer and closer to the bath-house. John leaned over a little further, almost so far that he fell over the edge of the balustrade, but he could slightly make out what it was that was clouding around Sherlock, and looked to almost be torturing him.

They looked like tiny, black birds of some sort, tiny birds with shimmering silver tails and beaks, driving themselves into Sherlock over and over again. 

Then, to John’s horror, as he watched, Sherlock fell out of the sky, plummeting down towards the water. His black body thrashed through the air, brilliant scales dull and unreflective, and blood standing stark against the sky as it trailed away from his body. 

‘SHERLOCK!’ screamed John, reaching out as if he could somehow stop the black dragon’s plummet towards the water. To no avail, as Sherlock continued to plummet, until he hit the water face first, plummeting beneath with a splash of steaming water. 

To John’s relief, the black birds were left scrambling above the water, as if they couldn’t let themselves get wet. They floated in a little cloud above the water, darting back and forth. John looked down, trying to peer into the water to make out where it was that Sherlock had gone. Sherlock appeared to still be falling, for a moment, but suddenly, was twisting under the water, straightening out until he was no longer falling, but swimming, shooting along beneath the water like some sort of great eel. 

John, if possible, actually leaned further over the balcony, watching as Sherlock did an abrupt turn under the water, shooting towards the bath-house, and heading directly for the water under John’s balcony. The cloud of tiny birds followed him, their silver tails and beaks flashing in the sunlight. 

Then, in a burst of water, Sherlock shot upwards, straight past John’s balcony, his body flagellating powerfully in the air. 

‘Sherlock!’ John called out, stepping back from the balcony to watch as Sherlock darted overhead and flickered about, his body once more surrounded by the clouds of small, black birds. ‘Over here!’ 

Waving his arms about, he seemed to have caught Sherlock’s attention, as Sherlock did a sharp loop in the air, darting through the cloud of birds to head straight for John. 

Thinking fast, John stepped back, out of the way of Sherlock’s body, leaving him room to shoot past when needed, and grasped onto the flimsy, slatted panels that served as a kind of door to the balcony, one which was usually kept open, only closed on the night of the storm once before. 

Sherlock’s body hissed through the air as he shot towards John, blood streaming from various cuts in his sides, the cloud of silver and black birds following quickly in his wake. Through the balcony Sherlock flew, and as quickly as he arrived, John slammed the slatted door shut, sliding it across to block out the tiny things that he thought were birds. 

A few made it through the slats, but were, for some reason, completely shattered by the impact with the floor, only a few left intact. On the other side of the room, spitting and dripping blood all over the mattresses and bedding, Sherlock had curled up on his side, his brilliant eyes scrunched shut. 

John was immediately across the room, at his side, kneeling down to inspect his dragon’s body. Sherlock’s scales were dulled by blood, and blood was slowly dribbling out of several cuts in his flanks, and from between the sharp teeth that lined the inside of his mouth. Shaking, John reached out a finger to touch Sherlock’s heaving flanks, stroking them gently, and resting a hand on top of Sherlock’s snout. 

‘Sherlock, oh, Sherlock,’ John gasped out, at the sight of Sherlock’s body covered in cuts. ‘Oh my God, let me just…’ 

He ran his full hand down Sherlock’s side, but Sherlock hissed at the contact, and John quickly drew his hand away, as if he had been burnt, inspecting where his fingers had gone to see the problem. 

Sticking out of his side was one of those things that he had thought were birds, but upon closer inspection realised were tiny umbrellas, flicking their canopies and ribs in and out to form wings of a sort. They had sharp, silver tips, and silver stems topped by what looked to be some sort of wood. They were no bigger than John’s hand, and, as John pulled the one in Sherlock’s side out, seemed like they dealt a nasty blow to one’s flesh. 

Sherlock howled as John pulled the umbrella out of his side, and John quickly tossed it away, before stroking at Sherlock’s sides gently. ‘Sherlock,’ he said, trying to catch the dragon’s attention, ‘Sherlock, can you hear me? Can you transform back for me?’ 

There was no reply, as the dragon thrashed and howled. John felt absolutely awful at the sound of Sherlock writhing and yelling in what seemed like pain, and there was nothing he could do. Sherlock wouldn’t stay still enough for John to get a good look at his wounds, and John couldn’t approach without almost getting whacked across the face by a part of the beautiful but hurt dragon lying across fromhim. 

Suddenly, Sherlock writhed once more, violently, and then rolled up to his feet, coiling like a spring before bursting through the slatted door that John had shut just a moment ago, on the other side of the room. 

‘Sherlock!’ yelled John, as the dragon fought his way free, and towards where the balcony was. Through the curtains the dragon burst, John following as best he could, but it was no use. 

Sherlock had flashed over the balcony, and had fallen some way. John rushed over to the balcony just in time to see Sherlock fight his way back up to airborne, and then thrashed his way towards the side of the bath-house near John’s head. His claws dug into the side, and then, like some sort of wall-climbing lizard, he falteringly scratched his way up the side of the building. 

Going over to the balcony and leaning back, John watched in dismay as Sherlock clambered higher and higher. Higher than John could ever remember going in the bath-house, and heading towards where a higher window was standing open, before disappearing over the ledge. 

Panicked, John darted across to the curtain on the other side of the room, just as Greg shoved his head in between the curtains. The result was a banging of heads that left John’s skull smarting, and his body falling backwards into the bloodied mattresses. 

‘Ow!’ yelled Greg, grabbing and rubbing at his skull where John’s own had impacted. ‘Blimey, mate, you’ve got a solid one on you.’ 

‘Ouch,’ John commiserated, stuck on his bum, and rubbing at where his skull was bruising. 

Greg took one look around the room, and at the chaos and destruction that Sherlock’s entrance had caused, and then looked back at John, one hand on his head, one eyebrow raised. ‘What happened in here?’ 

John waved off the inquiry, his skull still aching from the impact. He pushed himself to his feet anyway, and then tried to slide past where Greg was standing in the doorway, to no avail.

Greg stuck out a hand to stop him. ‘Where are you going?’ 

‘I’m kind of in a rush, Greg, it’s an emergency!’ insisted John, trying again to get past where Greg was standing, but the other man was too solid. 

‘Well, too bad, this is more important!’ He held up a small nugget of gold. ‘You have to come with me! There’s a new customer here, he’s giving away gold by the handful!’ 

‘I don’t care abut gold, Greg, I have to get past!’ 

‘Why?’ asked Greg, ‘surely nothing can be more important that this! It’s gold, real gold! You could buy a ticket out of here with this kind of gold, mate, for you and your sister!’ 

‘Greg, really, I can’t right now!’ 

‘What’s wrong, John?’ Greg said, now inspecting John closer, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate. Which wouldn’t be surprising here, I suppose.’ 

‘Greg, I have to go!’ 

Finally, John succeeded in pushing past the taller, grey-haired fox spirit, and towards where the staircase was. Behind him, Greg was staring, confused, at John’s retreating back. 

‘John, wait, you’ve got some sort of bird on your back!’ he yelled after the other man, but John didn’t hear him well. 

‘Later, Greg!’ he called back, rushing around the corner to where the staircase was standing, empty of people, thank goodness. 

Sprinting up the concrete stairs, John didn’t even notice the smell this time. 

Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, all the way down to his bones, filling him with energy. All his mind could process at the moment was that Sherlock was hurt, and that he needed medical attention, medical attention that John could provide.

John didn’t know what it was, but every protective instinct his small body had was coming to the fore right in this moment. Sherlock could be lying somewhere, high up in the bath-house, bleeding to death, and if John didn’t get to him right this instant, there would be hell to pay. 

Pushing through a curtain that he recognised as being on the second floor, John tried to push his way through the mounds of people that had gathered there, in an attempt to get to the other staircase that would take him up to the top floor. 

Unfortunately, it was no use. All the other workers were flowing in one particular direction, talking excitedly amongst themselves. 

‘… rich new customer,’ John heard, from one frog, leaping along beside a friend. 

‘I know,’ croaked his friend, in return, ‘I hope I can get some tips.’ 

John ignored them, pushing past to dash in the direction the crowd was flowing, hoping beyond all hope that there was some staircase up ahead that could lead to a higher floor than this one. 

They came up to the corridor running down the centre of the second floor, the one for customers. Beautifully tiled, all John could make out was that there was empty floor up ahead, and that he might be able to use that to his advantage, getting up ahead and trying to find his way to a higher floor. 

Leaping over a row of hosts, clothed more modestly now, but, for some strange reason, kneeling on the floor with baskets laid on the marble in front of them, John landed out in the open space. 

Only then did he really take stock of his situation. He was standing in the middle of what looked like an honour path, such as one given to a particularly respected soldier who had just been given an award. Around him, hosts were sitting up and staring at him in shock, their baskets laid on the floor in front of them. 

Over on the far side of the hallway, by the very last dining room curtain, John could see a small staircase that looked like it was going higher up in the bath-house. It didn’t look like the one he had taken before, to get up to Moriarty’s floor, but that was no matter. So long as he got higher up in the bath-house, it didn’t matter. 

He was about to turn, to make for that staircase, when behind him, a hand reached out and grabbed him by the back of the shirt, and whirling him around. The person who had grabbed him was a tall man, with wide-set shoulders and a dark frown. 

‘Get out of the way, Watson, our guest is coming through here!’ bellowed the large man, straight in John’s face. Behind him, John could see the spirit that had helped him, the one with the child’s mask for a face. But somehow, the spirit was different. 

The masked spirit was enormous, now, with long, frog-like legs. It seemed more … there, now. Unlike before. Before it had seemed almost ethereal, like a ghost of some sort, but now, it was solid, and black, and seemed almost like a jelly, or a liquid. 

About to push away from the man, John paused, looking up at the masked spirit. He nodded a greeting at the spirit, one of familiarity, in the hopes that it might allow him to get past quicker. 

In return, the spirit nodded its head, but the man between them didn’t see that. ‘Don’t talk to our guest, he doesn’t want to talk to a stinking human!’ shouted the man. 

‘Hey!’ The spirit spoke. John almost fell backwards in surprise, as a gaping, detailed maw just _beneath_ the mask opened up, allowing the spirit to speak in a deep, croaking voice, just as one of the spirit’s arms reached out. The arm grasped the man by the back of the shirt, and John took a step back, just as the spirit launched the other man across the room, as if he were nothing more than a rag-doll. The man was thrown into the hosts, who were still kneeling on the floor, to their distress. 

Aside from the hosts squealing at having a body thrown into them, the rest of the floor fell silent. 

The spirit was leaning forwards now, into the space that had been previously occupied by the larger man. The spirit was reaching out its hands towards John, once more, and shaking them. 

_‘Ah, ah,’_ the spirit was saying, softly, just as it had before. And, pooling in its hands, great mounds of gold were piling up. 

Confused, John watched the gold spill from the spirit’s hands, as it piled up more and more. Next to him, the groups of workers let out low sighs of astonishment, and envy, as the gold was offered to John. 

Taken aback, John raised his hands, and shook his head. ‘No, thank you,’ he repeated, just as he had before, ‘I don’t need any gold. I just need to get past, someone I care very much about is hurting.’ 

_‘Ah, ah,’_ repeated the spirit, more insistent now. John shook his head, again. 

‘No, I don’t want any,’ said John, ‘but thanks.’ 

The spirit’s hands were trembling, the gold in them shaking and more pieces sent tumbling and bouncing along the floor. It was all dropping down, now, as the spirit dropped its head. John might have felt guilty, but all he could think about was the sight of Sherlock, blood marring those beautiful scales. ‘I’m sorry, I’m in a very big hurry.’ 

Around him, the workers were all letting out gasps, and pressing forwards to try and get at the gold that was bouncing across the floor. John used the confusion to his advantage, pressing more insistently against everyone else, and heading towards the staircase he had seen earlier. It was a struggle, but John made it all the way to the staircase, and he began to dash up it. 

This staircase was much the same as the one he had used to come up to the second floor, but filled with the smells of the kitchen. John realised that that must mean it was near the kitchens, giving it that scent. 

The staircase wound all the way up to a large, wooden door, and that was the first time that John noted that he wasn’t in the same place as he had been before. The wooden door was completely unfamiliar to him, and oddly heavy as he shoved it out of the way. 

It opened onto a floor he didn’t think he’d been on before, one with pretty, white tiles with designs etched into them. It looked like this was a hallway of some kind, stretching out towards a far wall with a purple and gold tapestry hung between two wall sconces. 

Pillars and curtains lined the hallway, from behind which John couldn’t make out any sounds. 

No time to investigate, and desperate to find a way up, John turned to the left to see a curtain flickering in the breeze, clearly leading out to another balcony. John headed straight for that, pushing the curtain aside hastily to look back up at the bath-house. He could spot a window a little ways above him, that looked to be on the same floor as the one through which Sherlock had clambered. Between there and where he was standing was an aqueduct, winding around the side of the bath-house and shooting off towards the floor which John had seen Sherlock shoot through. 

Water was sheeting down through this aqueduct like a tiny waterslide, the water slightly mucky and grimy. It looked to be some sort of sewage line, and led to a tiny hole in the side of the bath-house. Next to the hole was a ledge, on the same level as the window that John had spotted before, and leading all the way along to it. It looked like it was the only option John had at the moment. 

Taking a deep breath, the adrenaline in his veins stopping him from thinking this through too carefully, John quickly tied the strand around his waist tighter, to hopefully prevent his shirt from going anywhere, he clambered up to the balustrade of the balcony that he was on, and then leapt quickly over to the aqueduct. 

Windmilling his arms to keep his balance, John refused to look down to gauge how high above the water below he was. The aqueduct was skinny, and made of marble, and somewhat slippery. 

John knew that if he stood here for too long, he would fall over, and that was a fate that no one should suffer. 

Still running off of an adrenaline high, and spotting the ledge that he was aiming for just up ahead, John slowly began to walk the wire towards the ledge, keeping his balance as best he could. 

That was, of course, when the screeching began overhead. 

John looked up, spotting the predatory bird hopefully before it spotted him. It didn’t leave him a lot of options, though. If he stayed out here, in the open, above the aqueduct, he might be spotted by Moriarty. He could retreat, back to the balcony, but that would mean wasting precious time during which Sherlock could be losing too much blood for John to save him. 

So the only option left was to get to the ledge, and hide under the convenient outcropping in the side of the bath-house, out of sight of the bird, before Moriarty caught sight of him. Taking a deep breath, John steeled himself for what was to come, and then, adrenaline and blood pumping through his veins, he ran. 

Imagining himself like one of those tightrope walkers at the circus, John sprinted over the aqueduct towards where he could see the ledge was up ahead. His feet pounded across the aqueduct, his every step slipping, but taking the next step before he could slip too far, John felt, for a moment, like he was flying. 

High above the water, glittering beautifully and deadly beneath, John darted towards the ledge. It was the most danger he had seen in months, and God if it wasn’t good. Powered entirely by his worry and care for Sherlock, John sprinted as fast as he could, until he pounded into the wall near the ledge, and gripped on for all he was worth. 

Above him, Moriarty was screeching, but John didn’t think that he had seen anything. He had been too quick for that. 

Taking a deep breath, and trying to dispel a little of the absolute terror cycling through his veins, John began to crab-walk along the ledge. The window that he had been aiming for was just up ahead, a set of Roman style slats blocking it off. 

As John approached, he saw that they looked like they were made of e same stuff that the ones down in the bedroom had been made of, and hoped that his body weight would be enough to break them open. He approached the window, as quietly as he could, and then inspected the window carefully. 

Reaching out a hand, he rattled at the window, trying to shake it open, but to no avail. It seemed like it was locked. 

So, he was going to have to approach this from a different direction.

He moved so that he was in front of the window, his body sprawled out and covering the window from view from the outside. Then, he made sure that he had good hand-holds and foot-holds. Taking another deep, calming breath, John leant back a little, so there was a good foot between his body and the slatted window, then slammed his body forward. 

The slats didn’t open under his body-force, so again, John slammed bodily into it. It wasn’t until the third try that the slats opened, oddly easily, and John was thrown forwards, into the room. He landed face-first in on a padded floor. Deep green in colour, the padded floor was soft under his nose, and smelt faintly of animal shit, for some reason. 

Disgusted, John pushed himself upright to take in his surroundings. 

He appeared to be in some sort of odd looking asylum, padded walls and purple cushions stacked and piled everywhere, and hay bales in one corner. In another corner, a small, white dish was piled with dripping, red meat, and had flies flickering around it. 

John wanted to retch at the sight. 

Over on the far side of the room, he saw a purple curtain that he thought he might have recognised from somewhere in the bath-house. He made a beeline for the one curtain that he recognised, and was about to burst through it before he heard a familiar voice from behind the curtain. 

‘… A new guest has arrived at the bath-house, it appears,’ said Moriarty, his slimy, lilting voice grating John’s nerves. ‘Interesting. Gold, you say? I shall be down directly. You had better not be lying to me, dear, or I will turn you into shoes.’ 

John dared a peek out from behind the curtain, to see Moriarty facing away from him, leaning against the desk and looking out the curtains on the other side of the office, through the balcony which John suddenly recognised as the one that Sherlock had clambered through. 

On the other side of the room, John spotted Sherlock, collapsed on the floor in the form of a dragon, blood oozing out of his cuts. Next to him was an odd, troll-looking creature, short and stout with animalistic features, but a human body. He seemed like he belonged in the laboratory of an insane scientist. 

In his hands he was holding a long stick, and poking away at Sherlock’s body the same way that a child would poke a dead animal with a stick. Beady eyes were fixed on the beautiful creature at his feet, darkly fascinated with what he was seeing. 

The only reason John didn’t immediately leap out from behind the curtain and accost whoever or whatever it was that was poking at his dragon was Moriarty, who had now laid down a small, skull shaped phone on the desk in the middle of the room, and was also looking avidly at Sherlock. 

John held his breath, terrified all of a sudden that, in the silence, Moriarty would hear him. 

‘Such a pity, isn’t it,’ said Moriarty, after a moment, ‘I was truly enjoying little Sherlock here. I acquired him some time ago, actually.’ 

The troll thing just grunted, and poked the stick into Sherlock side once more. 

‘Ugh,’ Moriarty sneered, in disgust, ‘Do something with him, won’t you? The pet is dripping his blood all over my nice carpets, and they’re _so_ boring when they’re dead.’ 

Another grunt from the troll. 

Just then, Moriarty sighed. ‘There’s a new guest at the bath-house. I expect this little problem to be cleaned up once I return, is that understood, Magnussen?’ 

The troll just grunted, again, but it seemed like it was an affirmative grunt. Moriarty was now turning towards the curtain, and suddenly panicking, John turned away from the curtain, and dove into the nearest pile of pillows. They were rough, coarse against his skin, but they were large, and offered a form of protection from Moriarty. 

John could hear the man striking the floor with his feet, and it sounded horribly loud in his ears. The rustle of the curtain was nearly enough to make John sick. 

‘Oh, Sebby, darling,’ Moriarty cooed, into the room, ‘where are you my darling?’ 

There was a low growl from the darkness next to him, and John nearly panicked, his heart rate and breathing skyrocketing. Moriarty seemed to be coming closer to his pile of pillows, so John shoved his hand over his face, just as he heard Moriarty pull a few pillows from the top. 

Unsure of what was happening, John strained his listening. 

‘Oh, Sebby, darling,’ Moriarty lilted, ‘Are you alright?’ 

Another low growl came from the darkness next to his ear, and John forced himself to hold his breath. 

‘Sleeping, I see,’ said Moriarty, before piling the pillows back on top. ‘I’ll leave you be, Sebby-poo. I’m coming back soon.’ 

Moriarty’s voice was oddly lilting, coddling even, as he left the room the way that he had come, with a low rustle. 

Then, there was complete silence. John couldn’t hear anything, but he counted to thirty under his breath, enough time for Moriarty to leave just as he said he was going to do, and then tried to pull himself free of the pillow pile. It was a bit of work, but he managed to burst out of the pile of harsh, sick-smelling pillows, and brush down his clothing. 

He crept towards the curtains, and was about to push through, when another loud growl sounded out from behind him, and a sudden weight landed on his back. 

John let out a cry, cursing, as he was thrown bodily onto the floor just in front of the curtain. He couldn’t quite make out what it was that had landed on him from his position, pressed into the floor, so he tried to wriggle and move around until he could turn his head. 

And, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sight that left his blood frozen in his veins. 

On top of him, large paws pressed into his back, and maw gaping wide, was a massive tiger. It had brilliant, red fur, and dark stripes. Cat eyes peered maliciously at him, and long teeth glinted in the light. 

John nearly screamed, but, remembering what the Army had told him about wild animals, instead remained completely still. Barely daring to breathe, he watched as the tiger pinning him to the floor looked him over. Its paws shifted on his back, and John couldn’t do anything but lay there, helplessly. 

Was this it, for him? Was he going to die, be eaten by the massive tiger at his back? 

And, most importantly, why the fuck was Moriarty keeping a wild tiger in the room next to his office?!

Then, something that made him feel worse than he already did sounded from the next room. A whine, a whimper that he recognised as Sherlock’s rang out into the room, and John was filled with panic. 

The last he had seen of Sherlock, that troll thing was poking him, and was then instructed to dispose of Sherlock somehow. The knowledge that Sherlock was likely in danger again filled his veins with adrenaline, and John did the only thing he could think of. 

Looking back on it, John had to admit it was both the bravest and stupidest thing he had ever done, but at the time, it was the only thing he could think of. 

Fighting under the grip of the tiger, John suddenly burst upwards, using every muscle in his body to try and throw the tiger off. The tiger growled at him, but before it had a chance to leap, John balled up his fist, careful not to let the thumb inside, and swung. His fist landed, directly in the tiger’s snout, and throwing the tiger backwards with the force of the punch. 

The tiger howled in pain, falling onto its side, but John didn’t notice, already darting through the curtain to the other side. The troll looked up, surprised, from what he was doing, as John launched across the room, whacked the troll with the stick that he had wrenched from the troll’s grasp, and sent it flying away from Sherlock. 

Sherlock himself was laying in a pool of blood on the rug in the middle of Moriarty’s office, his eyes completely scrunched shut. He was positioned right next to some sort of chute that led down into darkness, precariously balanced, and the troll was only making it worse, prodding Sherlock towards the deep chasm. John threw himself down beside Sherlock, panicking already at the amount of blood that Sherlock had lost, and trying his best to stem the flow that he could see. 

Sherlock’s lifeblood was oozing out on the carpet, and John had no idea what to do. 

‘Sherlock,’ he tried, ‘Sherlock, you need to listen to me. I don’t know much about dragon biology — you need to transform back so I can help you. God… please Sherlock, transform for me.’ 

Stroking up and down Sherlock’s snout, John tried to comfort the dragon, whose body seemed to be completely sapped of any sort of energy. The dragon looked half-dead already, and God if it didn’t make John almost woozy with horror and fear for Sherlock’s life. 

Just then, there was an enraged roar behind him, and John turned to see the tiger burst through the curtain next to Moriarty’s desk, and stand with its legs splayed, clearly ready to charge at John. And all John could think was to protect Sherlock, splaying his body out in front of the dragon, and holding out his arms, as if he could do anything to protect the dragon from the tiger. 

‘Oh, good lord.’ 

Suddenly, another voice was added to the mix. This voice was loud, and smooth, and had a deep, rich sort of quality to it that John immediately associated with power and wealth. 

‘Well, isn’t this a dramatic sight.’ 

The voice seemed to be coming from the carpet, and, as John looked down, he saw it. There, standing upright on its handle on the carpet was one of the silver-tipped umbrellas that had been plaguing Sherlock earlier, the voice coming directly from it, loud and full of exasperation. 

‘You,’ said the voice, ‘are a complete and utter annoyance.’ 

Suddenly, there was a flash, and the umbrella darted forwards to circle the tiger. Confused, the tiger tilted its head and tried to swat at the umbrella, but it just darted out of the way. Then, with a flick almost like a magician’s wand, a bright bolt of gold light emitted from the tip, and landed squarely on the tiger, lighting it in brilliant gold. 

Then, as John watched, in astonishment, the tiger shrunk in size, growing smaller and smaller in midair, until the gold light faded, and a tiny tabby kitten plopped onto the floor. 

‘And as for you,’ continued the umbrella, swivelling to point directly at the troll, ‘Well. Let us have some fun, why don’t we?’ 

Another bolt of bright gold light hit the troll on the other side of the room, transforming the troll into the tiger. The troll — or tiger as he now was — didn’t charge them, and instead skated through the curtains on the far side of the room, disappearing. 

‘Well, now, my dear brother cannot possibly say I possess no form of humour.’ The umbrella itself was now glowing, a brilliant gold, and a man stepped out from the gold, dusting his prim waistcoat off from imaginary dust. 


	9. Chapter 9

Astonished, John looked up at the newcomer, a tall, middle-aged, balding man with perfectly coiffed, auburn-brown hair, and silvery eyes. He had a prominent nose, and milky skin, and dressed more finely than the Prime Minister. 

‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded John, standing protectively in front of Sherlock. 

The man stroked his chin with one soldier, regarding John with an all-seeing eye. ‘Ah yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?’ 

‘What?’ asked John, stupidly, just as the tabby kitten on the other side of the room charged, and latched onto his foot. ‘Fuck!’ 

John yelped, as the tiny teeth dug into his bare skin, jumping around in pain. The man watched on, bemused, a slight smile playing about his thin lips. 

‘I think,’ said the man, ‘that I could possibly be described as the closest thing Sherlock Holmes here has to a friend. An enemy, of course, in his mind, at least. Or, perhaps, not the closest thing to a friend, not anymore, am I correct?’ 

‘What?!’ asked John, more exasperated now, as he pried the tabby kitten off his foot, holding up the scrabbling cat by the scruff of its tiny neck. 

The man let out a sigh, through his nose, which John was pretty sure actually steamed. ‘Mycroft Holmes, at your service,’ he said, ‘I am Sherlock’s brother.’ 

John stared at the man, astonished. Peering closer, though, he thought he could see it. Something about the shape of Mycroft’s eyes, similar to Sherlock’s in colour, as well. 

‘My erstwhile brother has rather stolen something precious from me. I want it back.’ 

‘What did Sherlock steal?’ asked John, still protective of the bleeding dragon behind him. Who had gone oddly still. And John didn’t let that panic him too much. 

‘One of my memory crystals,’ he replied, ‘I require it back, immediately. It is vital to one of my current operations.’ 

John turned around to look at Sherlock, gauging that the umbrella man wasn’t of too much threat to him at the moment. ‘I don’t particularly care about your crystal,’ he muttered, ‘All I care about is making Sherlock better. So if you care about your brother at all, you’ll help me.’ 

‘I worry about him,’ said Mycroft, from closer now, ‘Constantly.’ 

‘Great, well, that constant worry can help me convince him to transform into human form, then. Or do you have some sort of magic that can do that, somehow?’ 

Mycroft sighed out through his nose, again. ‘I cannot do much in this form,’ he said. ‘This is, perhaps, a test, for you alone. You must help Sherlock, if you truly care for him as much as I can see you think you do. Oh, and my crystals are cursed. Anyone who steals them will die a horribly painful death, I’m afraid to say.’

‘Why the hell would you do that?!’ demanded John, ‘Your brother might die, now!’ 

‘Well, I did not believe he would honestly steal them from me!’ retorted Mycroft, raising an eyebrow. ‘If my brother was in his right mind, he wouldn’t even contemplate such a thing.’ 

‘His right mind? What does that mean?’ 

Just then, Sherlock stirred, his body thrashing, and his beautiful eyes coming alive once more. The kitten, in John’s hand, began yowling in response. Sherlock’s tail then flicked out, suddenly, landing unerringly on the umbrella from which Mycroft seemed to be projected, splitting it in two, and with it, Mycroft. 

The man in the suit split completely in half, the two sides dividing like cut paper, as a shocked expression stumbled across the man’s face. 

‘Oh, bollocks,’ swore Mycroft, before disappearing entirely. 

‘Sherlock!’ John gasped out, trying to steady the dragon, to no avail. The force of Sherlock’s thrashing only served to overbalance the dragon, and send him plummeting down the chute. John didn’t think twice about, just before Sherlock fell, grasping onto the horns on Sherlock’s head, and holding the kitten tightly in his other hand. 

Then, they were falling, straight down what seemed to be some sort of garbage chute, down, down, towards darkness. There seemed to be things, in the darkness, as well, odd half-human, half-monster shadows reaching out clinging fingers towards them. The kitten mewled in protest, and underneath him, Sherlock was whimpering, his jaws spewing blood. 

John himself, oddly, was calm, as he gripped the kitten tighter under his arm, and clung to Sherlock, bodily bringing himself on top of the dragon as if he were riding Sherlock. 

Immediately, a sense of deja vu overcame him.

The scent of the busy London street filtered through his nose, and this time, he could actually feel the tears pooling on his face, and in the hollows of his cheeks. He could feel the baby fat on his face, and the cut on his lefthand that was slowly oozing blood. 

A single flash of a London street, one that he knew he recognised, flashed behind his eyes, and it was something else for John to dwell on, but perhaps at a different time. 

Still they were falling, down towards those reaching, clinging hands. John leant forwards, on Sherlock, and tried to whisper in his ear. 

‘Please, Sherlock. Fly for me.’ 

That did it, he thought. Sherlock’s body twisted powerfully underneath him, and they were airborne, flickering through the air and swooping, up into the air and out of the reach of the clinging, vine-like hands beneath, the shadows crying out in dismay over a lost victim. 

Sherlock shot upwards like a bullet out of a cannon, up, up, up, towards a small, black tunnel in the side of the chute, one that John could only just make out in the darkness. Sherlock bent as he flicked through the hole, only just enough room for John to make it through cleanly without losing his head. John watched, they were headed towards a spinning fan, and all he had time to do was scream as they plundered straight ahead. 

Through the fan they shot, the wooden structure completely shattering upon impact. John himself was hit by a flurry of splinters, lodging themselves in his hair and skin, and only by virtue of the fact that he managed to close his eyes in time were they prevented from being damaged. Beneath him, Sherlock’s thrashing body was leaking blood at any rate, into the fabric of his pants, and the kitten was digging its claws into the flesh of John’s back. 

Altogether, a rather uncomfortable situation. 

They burst, to John’s surprise, straight into Mrs Hudson’s boiler room, landing and skidding across the marble. John was thrown off of Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock’s momentum carried him on until he was thrown against the baskets containing herbs on the other side of the room. The baskets shuddered, and collapsed, surrounding Sherlock in piles of small, sweet-smelling herbs. 

Mrs Hudson screamed, at the shock. 

With a thump, Sherlock collapsed to the ground, his legs splayed wide, and his long, muscular body coiled in around itself in pain. Sherlock’s eyes screwed shut, and he let out low whines through his nose, his jaw clenched tightly. 

‘Oh, dear,’ Mrs Hudson bothered, waving her long arms about in shock, her face harried and fearful. ‘Dear, dear, what happened?’ 

John shook his head, immediately throwing himself across the room to where Sherlock was lying, and running a hand across his dragon’s snout. ‘Sherlock,’ he tried, ‘Sherlock, please listen to me! I need you to transform for me!’ 

‘Dear, I don’t think he can,’ replied Mrs Hudson, ‘I think he may have broken bones.’ 

John took a deep, stabilising breath, realising that Mrs Hudson was likely right, that Sherlock wouldn’t likely be able to actually transform without seriously hurting himself until after his bones had set. And, taking another look, he seemed like he was downright ill, like he had swallowed something he shouldn’t have done. 

With that in mind, John realised that there was now something that could be done. He turned to Mrs Hudson. 

‘Do you have any bandages, Mrs Hudson?’ he asked, desperately, ‘Anything I could use at all to help fix him up?’ 

‘I think so,’ Mrs Hudson replied, thoughtfully, before going over to where she had a large, woven basket a little different from the other stacked about the room. From it she pulled a large, white sheet, which she handed over to John, as well as a small jug of water. ‘Will this do, dear?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied John, his doctor’s mindset coming to the forefront of his head. Inspecting Sherlock with a more critical eye, he could see where there were cuts and bruises and bangs that would need cleaning, and where it looked like swelling was beginning at points where bones may be broken. 

But, the more pressing issue, Sherlock was looking sicker and sicker by the moment, his eyes completely shut now, and his teeth showing as he whined out in pain. John couldn’t help the dagger that felt like it was being plunged into his heart at the sounds Sherlock was making, and, as he laid a hand on his dragon’s snout, he realised that the dragon was burning up, a fever wracking his body. 

Then, John remembered the medicine ball given to him by the river-spirit. It suddenly felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket, and he drew it out, carefully looking it over. 

Next to him, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock, Mrs Hudson let out a low gasp. ‘That’s medicine from a very powerful spirit, dear,’ she said, ‘You had better not waste it.’ 

‘Mrs Hudson, you know what this is?’ 

‘Yes, dear,’ she replied, ‘Of course. I’m old, and I know herbs. I know that is a very rare medicine that will cure most common magical ills.’ 

‘Do you think it will help Sherlock?’ 

‘Possibly,’ replied Mrs Hudson. That left no doubt in John’s mind. 

Leaning over, John tried to leverage open Sherlock’s jaw, but only succeeded in rolling back his lip. Beneath, sharp, white teeth shone dully in the light, and, in desperation, John tried to press the medicine against Sherlock’s teeth. 

Blood was trickling out between his teeth and over his snout, pooling in his lips. It told John that Sherlock might even have some sort of internal bleeding, and he tried not to let that panic him too much. To no avail, of course. 

‘Sherlock, listen to me,’ he said, desperate, ‘You have to open up, you have to take this medicine. It’s from the river-spirit. It will help you.’ 

Sherlock just let out another low whine through his nose, which both broke John’s heart, and compelled him to further action. Realising giving Sherlock the whole thing most likely wasn’t a great idea, he bit into the medicine ball himself. It broke easily enough under his teeth, revealing a pasty sort of inside, that tasted absolutely foul. 

Resisting the urge to shudder in disgust, John removed the piece he had broken off from between his teeth, and, shoving the rest into his pocket, got to work. With all the strength he could find, he leveraged open Sherlock’s maw, opening it wide with both hands. 

Then, trusting that Sherlock wouldn’t clamp down and risk biting off his arm, John used one hand to shove the piece of medicine deep into Sherlock’s throat. It was a herculean task, but he managed to shove it deep enough so that he would have time to remove his hand before Sherlock tried to spit it out, then throw his entire body weight over Sherlock’s snout, clamping it shut so he would have no choice but to swallow. 

Intending to spit it out, John could see the moment that Sherlock let the medicine touch his tongue, because his brilliant eyes boggled wide out of his head, and he began to thrash, fighting John’s compact body on top of him. Clinging to Sherlock like his life depended on it, John forced Sherlock toswallow the medicine. It was quite the task — Sherlock thrashing about and fighting him as hard as he could. Sherlock’s heavily muscled body thumped him over and over again, his tail and even his claws coming into play, but John just grimly held on tight, protecting his head as Sherlock thrashed. 

Sherlock was letting out more than just whines now, but what seemed like screams. The whistling sounds he was emitting came straight from between his teeth, but John forced himself to ignore them as Sherlock swallowed the medicine. 

Then, to John’s horror, his neck began to bulge, and Sherlock’s eyes were now wide, and rolling around so that John could see the whites of them. It was almost like John was blocking a tap, and comically, the pipes were bulging about to burst. Wagering that it was good idea for him to let go, now, John rolled off Sherlock’s snout. 

Rearing up high with a snorting roar, Sherlock’s maw opened wide, and a gush of blood poured out, as did something else, covered in black goop, go skittering across the floor, bouncing a few times before coming to settle on the ground. 

John didn’t notice, occupied as he was with watching Sherlock. Sherlock thrashed a few more times, before thumping to the ground. John’s lower arm was covered in blood, dripping down and drying on the muscle. 

‘John!’ Mrs Hudson called, catching his attention, ‘John, look, there!’ 

John looked up, after where Mrs Hudson was pointing. On the floor, sitting in a small puddle of black goo, and dripping with the same stuff was a small, shimmering crystal that was reflecting rainbows in the firelight. 

‘Mycroft’s crystal!’ John cried, leaping across the ground to retrieve it. 

As they watched, the black goop coalesced into what looked like a tiny, black slug, with small, beady, black eyes. The creepy thing seemed to gather itself together, then squiggle across the floor. 

‘That slug!’ Mrs Hudson pointed, ‘You have to get it, dear!’ 

John leapt to do her bidding, stepping quickly across the floor and trying to step on it like one would do a spider. Unfortunately, the thing was quite fast, shooting across to the tiny mouse holes in the hopes that it might get away. 

Thankfully for John, the soot balls occupying the space had other ideas, prickling up and squeaking angrily at the slug, leaving it nowhere to go. John darted after it, as fast as he was capable, before managing to land his foot on it. 

He swore, as it squished under his foot, nastily squeezing between his toes. 

‘You killed it!’ exclaimed Mrs Hudson, in surprise, ‘Good, dearie, those things are bad luck. Now, quickly, come here, before it rubs off on you!’ 

She beckoned John over, and, confused, John hopped over, his dirtied foot in the air. Mrs Hudson reached out a finger, and crossed it over his heart, quickly, twice. ‘Evil, begone!’ she announced. 

‘Mrs Hudson, this crystal,’ he held it out to her, ‘Sherlock stole it from his brother, Mycroft.’ 

‘One of Mycroft Holmes’ crystals?’ Mrs Hudson said, in surprise, ‘That’s as powerful as it gets, dear.’ 

She looked like she was going to explain further, but, over in the corner, John could see that something was wrong with Sherlock. The dragon seemed to be unconscious, but, to John’s horror, he was shrinking, melting away. 

Rushing over to his dragon, John watched as Sherlock transformed, a little more harshly than usual, perhaps, back into the human that he knew, and, now he was almost certain, loved. 

However, his curls were matted across his head, and he was face down in the marble tiling. His clothes were in tatters, and only the dark colour of them was hiding what John suspected was a lot of blood. 

Carefully, John knelt next to the young spirit, and rolled him over, gasping in horror. Sherlock’s face was cut and bruised, and blood trickled from his forehead into the hollows of his eyes, and out from between his lips. His curls were matted, and shining darkly with blood, hanging limply over screwed shut eyes. 

Sherlock whined, lowly, as John held him instinctively tighter. 

‘Sherlock,’ John whispered, ‘Sherlock, can you hear me?’ 

‘He’s very sick,’ said Mrs Hudson, ‘Especially if Mycroft Holmes really has put a curse on the crystal, which he swallowed.’ 

‘What do I do, Mrs Hudson?’ John asked, desperately looking up at the spidery old woman. She shook her head. 

‘You are the doctor, dear,’ she replied, ‘Do what you do best.’ 

That prompted John to again look at the situation from the perspective of a doctor. Sherlock seemed to be looking better. In human form, the swelling had gone down, and it no longer seemed like he was bleeding internally, or had any broken bones. It was almost like expelling the crystal, and transforming had healed the worst of it. 

John was relieved for that, yet Sherlock still looked quite sick. 

‘Mrs Hudson,’ he asked, ‘Can I get some bedding and something to mop up the blood?’ 

‘Of course, dear,’ she replied, leaning back and scuttling over to where a basket was overflowing with bedding. She picked some out in a pale shade of blue, tossing them towards John. John grabbed them out of the air, and tucked Sherlock carefully into them, sitting his long, limp form up against John’s body. 

Mrs Hudson returned with a small, damp flannel, and a small dish with what looked like tea in it. John nodded his thanks, taking the flannel from her hands, and using it to wipe off the blood from Sherlock’s face, where his head was leant against John’s shoulder. John knew that it wasn’t exactly the best position to help his sick love in, but John couldn’t help the fact that he needed to feel Sherlock against him, to somehow use his body heat to make Sherlock better. Foolish, he knew, but instinct was a powerful thing. 

Once he had cleaned the blood from Sherlock’s face, he carefully, dabbed his face dry, and handed the flannel back to Mrs Hudson. It was now absolutely coated in blood, the flannel stained red, but Mrs Hudson didn’t seem to mind, just taking it back with a kind smile, and handing him the dish of lukewarm tea. John smiled wanly at her, in return, and gently held the tea up to Sherlock’s lips. 

‘Sherlock, love, you have to drink this,’ said John, softly, ‘It will make you feel better. You’re dehydrated, love.’ 

No reply was forthcoming, but Sherlock’s mouth was open, slightly, and John tipped the dish towards Sherlock, letting the liquid run into Sherlock’s mouth, and hopefully down his throat. Some of it did spill, leaving John with a copious dark spot on the front of his uniform, but it wasn’t anything he had to particularly worry about. 

Sherlock seemed to be taking down a fair amount of the tea, so John just kept pouring it in, until the dish was completely empty. 

Mrs Hudson smiled gently at him, taking the dish, and bustling back over to her bench to put it away. 

‘I am so sorry for Sherlock, dear,’ Mrs Hudson said, conversationally. John smiled at her, wanly, ‘I knew that it would be trouble when Moriarty came in the first place.’ 

‘What happened?’ asked John. 

‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Mrs Hudson. ‘Where to begin?

‘This bath-house,’ she continued, ‘was once owned by Sherlock and Mycroft’s parents. It was started to give the spirits a place to go to clean off, and talk. It never used to be the slave-house it is now.’ 

‘But then?’ asked John. 

‘Then Master and Mistress Holmes passed, dear,’ she replied, ‘and, for some reason, Moriarty took the place, instead of Mycroft.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ replied Mrs Hudson, ‘All I know is that one day, Mistress and Master Holmes were in charge, and then the next, they had died, and Mycroft and Sherlock had both vanished.’ 

‘Sherlock came back though. Why?’ 

‘I have never asked, dear. And, in time, Sherlock seemed to forget. He forgot where he came from. That was one of the first things that Moriarty did, John. He trapped me here, and he laid a spell on this place. So that everyone, once they had signed a contract here, would forget their homes, and those who were most important to them — those they most loved. Take Greg, for example, dearie. He has forgotten his love.’ 

‘Do you know who it was, Mrs Hudson?’ 

Mrs Hudson just shook her head, sadly. ‘If I did, I have forgotten, dear. Greg has been here for quite some time.’ 

It was a mystery. 

John had to admit, he had been left with far more questions than answers, but it was more than clear to him that something had happened. Something had happened, a long time ago, when Moriarty first came to the bath-house. Something had taken away all the memories of what had happened.

‘When Sherlock came, I do remember telling him to leave. To return to where he came from. He told me that he couldn’t remember, already, where it was that he was from, where he called home. I believe Sherlock and Greg actually came at the same time. And Sherlock became Moriarty’s apprentice.’ 

John sighed, stroking a hand over Sherlock’s curls, before pressing a kiss to the skin of his temple. ‘Perhaps… perhaps if I go to Mycroft Holmes myself, I can find out what happened. I can save Sherlock.’ 

‘You would do that?’ wondered Mrs Hudson, ‘Dearie, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful spirit that I have ever heard of. That anyone has ever heard of. You ask any spirit here, dear, they will tell you the same thing. He is someone to be feared.’ 

‘More than Moriarty?’ questioned John. ‘And, surely, don’t you know Mycroft? If he lived here, when his parents still ran the bath-house?’ 

‘Perhaps I did, once,’ replied Mrs Hudson, ‘but if I do, I do not remember.’ 

‘There seems to be a lot that has been forgotten here,’ said John, simply. 

Mrs Hudson looked at him, sadness in her eyes. ‘Yes, dear. I do not remember much. I remember that this place used to be kind. I remember this place as being open to anyone, who would come seeking a job. And me? Oh, the freedom I had. I could leave at any time, and now I am a slave to this boiler.’ 

Her back slouched, the elderly woman looking more aged than John had ever seen her. It made John so, so sad to see, and wondering. What had happened here? What was it that Moriarty had done to make the bath-house this place? 

‘John!’ A new voice called out from the curtain in the far corner of the room. John looked over to see Greg, his grey hair tousled, and a harried look on his face. ‘Here you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’ 

‘What’s wrong?’ asked John, relaxing his muscled from where he had protectively gathered Sherlock tighter in to himself when Greg had burst through. ‘What’s going on?’ 

‘The spirit!’ Greg said, ‘The one who offered you gold, the rich one? It turns out that it’s a No-Face, a spirit that offers you things you want. He’s gone crazy, and is devouring the workers! You have to come and help!’ 

‘Why?’ demanded John, ‘I have to stay here, with Sherlock.’ 

‘The spirit, he’s asking for you. Molly’s keeping him occupied right now. Moriarty was down, he took all the gold, but left at the first sign of trouble. You have to come and help before it eats Molly!’ 

Conflicted by the panicked look on Greg’s face, worry for Molly, and the man in his arms, who was sill bruised and battered, John froze, unsure, until Mrs Hudson spoke. 

‘Dear, I’ll take care of Sherlock, for now,’ she said, ‘You go and stop that nasty No-Face for now. Oh, and here!’ 

Quickly, she handed a small slip of folded paper to John, who raised his eyebrow in confusion, and unfolded the slip to reveal that it was a strip of train tickets. ‘The stop you want is called Castle Lake,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘That’s where you’ll find him.’ 

‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson,’ John grinned, gratefully. Greg, in the meantime, was gaping at the strip of tickets John was tucking into his pocket beside the ball of medicine. 

‘You have train tickets?’ he yelped. 

‘Yes, Greg, dear,’ replied Mrs Hudson, ‘I’ve been saving them for years now. Oh, and John, dear, take your clothes. Quickly, change into them before you leave.’ 

John looked down to see that his human clothes were folded up on the floor beside him, the orange and black kitten sitting on top of his neatly folded oatmeal jumper, licking its paws. John frowned down at it, but plucked the clothes out from under it, and tucked them into the crook of his arm. Nodding his thanks at Mrs Hudson, he gently set Sherlock down to lie flat on the marble floor where he had just been sitting, tucking the man up in bedding, before laying another kiss on his forehead. 

‘I’ll be back, love,’ he whispered, in Sherlock’s ear, ‘I promise.’ 

Then, standing, he plucked the kitten up and laid it on his shoulder, and grabbed his folded clothes, putting them in the crook of his arm. ‘I’ll take the cat with me, for Sherlock’s brother to change back,’ he explained, leaning over to kiss Mrs Hudson on the cheek. Mrs Hudson giggled, and smiled kindly at him. ‘And, Mrs Hudson,’ he continued, ‘Thank you. I’ll be back for Sherlock. Soon. If he wakes up, will you tell him that?’ 

‘Of course, dear,’ replied Mrs Hudson. 

John turned, and nodded at Greg. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’m ready.’ 

***

The bangs and crashes of the No-Face could be heard from a mile off, and as they drew closer, John realised that the sounds were only getting louder and louder. Greg led him around a corner, to an innocuous-looking purple curtain on the third floor. From behind it, the source of the crashes and bangs could be heard, and John swallowed, in trepidation, as Greg nudged him. 

‘It’s in there, yeah?’ asked John, as if it wasn’t obvious. Greg nodded, biting his lip nervously. 

‘Yeah, mate,’ replied Greg, ‘And Molly’s in there, now.’ 

‘Is she?’ asked John, just as Molly stuck her head around through the curtain. Her hair was loose and flyaway around her head, and she was grimacing. 

‘Have you brought… oh John, thank goodness you’re here!’ she gushed, pushing through the curtain before shutting it tightly and shuddering. ‘You have to get in there. The No-Face is demanding you.’ 

Just then, there was a loud cry of John’s name from behind the curtain, and another crash-bang. All three of them visibly shuddered at the sound, and John nodded. Again, adrenaline was crashing through his system, and he realised that at some point today, he was going to have a really nasty crash. 

Taking a deep breath, John stepped up to the curtain. 

‘I’ll be out in a moment,’ he said, before pushing open the curtain, and pushing through. 

Inside, John took a deep breath, taking comfort in the fact that he was clothed in his own, familiar-smelling oatmeal jumper, before surveying the room. His first impression was that it was a mess. There were empty dishes and various bits of detritus piled everywhere, and tables and chairs were upturned all over the place. Curtains dividing up the area had been torn to shreds, and were lying in small piles of fabric strewn across the place. And, at the far side of the room, perched on top of a pile of detritus and food scraps like a king on a throne was the No-Face. 

John stared silently at the spirit, who was no simply enormous, and bulging. He seemed more liquid than he had before, like a sort of bubble with legs held together by only the thinnest of veneers. 

Its mask was protruding from its main body, neck protruding and thin, and the mask jutting out and sitting a little awkwardly on its face. It was throbbing and dripping a little, and the maw gaping just underneath, filled with saliva and, and dribbling down around its chin. 

‘John!’ greeted the spirit, enthusiastically, ‘Here! Try some of this! It’s delicious, and I just know that you’re hungry.’

The spirit was holding up a bowl full of some sort of fried meat, waving it under John’s nose. John didn’t say anything, just leaning back a little, out of the way. Dropping the bowl, the spirit wobbled a little closer to him, balanced on four, spindly, spidery looking legs. 

‘Want some gold?’ it asked, ‘I’m not going to give it to anyone else!’ 

Leaning forwards, the spirit reached out to John once more. John shook his head, silently, again. 

‘What do you want, John?’ asked the spirit, leaning forwards, ‘What do you want? Name it, and I’ll give it to you.’ 

‘I want to leave,’ said John, after a moment. ‘Please. I need to go somewhere very urgently.’ 

‘No!’ howled the spirit, ‘No, stay here, with me, John! Here!’ It thrust its hand out, filled with gold, its long, thin fingers almost touching John’s face. ‘Take it! Take the gold!’ 

The fingers were lengthening and thickening, now, curling around John’s face, and emitting an odd smell, almost like dead and rotting flesh. John wanted to be sick. 

‘If I do,’ he asked, ‘Will you eat me?’ 

The hand immediately retracted, and John took the chance to suck in a deep breath of air, free from the scent of rotting flesh. Then, he spoke again. ‘You should go back to where you came from. The bath-house isn’t a safe place to be. Don’t you have any friends, or family, who you can go back to?’ 

‘Noo…’ moaned the spirit, ‘No, no, I’m by myself… no, John…’ 

Suddenly, something began to happen. The spirit’s mask seem to almost retract into its body. With a nasty, squelching sort of sound, the mask folded into the spirit’s massive, black body, almost completely hidden from view aside from one, small, brilliantly blue eye. 

Then, John realised. ‘Are you lonely?’ he asked it. 

‘Lonely… lonely… want John to join me… come with me…’ it moaned, again. John sighed. 

‘I really think you should go home,’ said John, ‘You’re destroying the bath-house, and you’re putting people in danger. You almost ate my friend Molly. You need to go home.’ 

‘No…’ the spirit moaned, again, ‘No… no…’ 

‘What is it that _you_ want?’ asked John. 

‘I want John!’ it insisted, reaching out its hand again, filled with gold, and shoving it in John’s face. 

John forced himself to take a few steps back, then a few more, until he had been backed up against the marble wall next to the curtain through which he had come. The marble was cold, hard and shocking at his back, and John had to resist the overwhelmingly sudden feeling of distress at being trapped, without an easily definable point through which he could exit. The cloying scent was back, as were the long, tendril-like fingers, wrapping around John’s face and the back of his neck, and insistently tugging. ‘Take the gold, take it, take it.’ 

The fingers encircling his head grew tighter and tighter, and John was worried that soon he wouldn’t be able to breathe. Then, next to him, the orange and black kitten lunged, its jaws wide, and clamped down on the spirit’s finger, where it was wrapped around John’s face. 

Howling, the spirit let go, the tiny tabby kitten accompanying the hand, clenching grimly on. John watched as the kitten was brought up, with the hand, to in front of the spirit’s face. It used its other hand to pluck the kitten from its hand, and flick it off almost like one would with an annoying fly. 

Nimbly, the kitten landed on two feet, darting across the room to where John was, and leaping up to his shoulder, before settling there, content with the work that he had done. On the other hand, the spirit was shaking the hand that the kitten had bitten onto in pain, and groaning a little. 

Bravely, John breathed in through his nose, and stepped forwards. 

‘If you want to eat me, fine,’ John said, digging the other half of the medicine ball out of his pocket, ‘But you have to eat this, first. It was saving it for my sister, but I think you need it more.’ 

The gaping maw of the spirit was an easy target, and with a flick of his wrist, John tossed the other half of the medicine ball into the maw of the spirit. Its huge tongue flicked out, and then its maw closed, just as it leaned forwards, expectant. 

That was, of course, before an ominous bubbling sound began. John took a step back, watching in horror as some sort of black goop began to pool in the corners of the gaping, pink maw of the spirit, spilling out and pooling on the floor. 

‘Oh… I don’t feel so good…’ complained the spirit, in the stolen voice that it had. It began to bubble up with more of the black goop, trickling out of its maw in a steady stream now. ‘I’ll… guh… kill you for this, John!’ 

John took that as his cue to run, and, throwing open the curtain, sprinted out of the room and past Greg and Molly. Behind him, there was a crash, and the sound of Molly’s scream, as well as the pound of feet that told john that the both of them were now following him. 

The spirit could also be heard behind him, vomiting up more and more of the chunky, black goop, and skating after him on its four, spindly legs. It seemed almost like a lizard, as John looked back to gauge how far away it was, scraping and sliding across the marble floors of the bath-house, scrambling after him. 

John forced himself to run faster, if that was at all possible, scrambling for the nearest staircase. ‘Get out the way!’ he screamed, at guests and workers alike, and, as soon as they saw what it was that was pursuing him, scrambled out of the way as fast as they could. 

Through the bath-house John ran, towards a staircase, and down, swinging through the narrow opening to dart down to the main bath floor of the bath-house. Darting out, he found himself right next to the same big bath he had cleaned his first night here. More guests were up ahead, jumping out of the way as he came through, the black monstrosity on his tail. 

‘What have you done to me!’ screamed the spirit, behind him, hot on his trail as John turned a corner and headed for the staff corridor. Through another curtain John ran, the same curtain getting ripped off its bar as the spirit passed through as well. The workers were running away, left right and centre, and John couldn’t blame them. 

John jumped towards another staircase, pausing a moment to look behind him. 

Barrelling down the corridor, the spirit was coming towards him, but also stopped, halfway down, to retch, and suddenly chuck up a worker, who bounced across the floor, and stopped there with a look of surprise on her face. 

With a start, John realised that it was Irene, and a completely naked Irene at that. Next to her, another worker had been bounced out of the maw of the spirit, the frog foreman from whom John had taken the token for the bath on his first night. 

Then, the spirit was barrelling towards him once more, his maw bubbling with black fluid. John pushed off, the chase beginning once more, as they headed lower and lower in the bath-house. 


	10. Chapter 10

The black spirit still pursuing him, and looking markedly smaller now, with just two legs, John darted out the side of the workers’ corridor, onto a balcony. Spotting a nearby aqueduct, this one wide and almost inviting, John jumped over the balcony, and over to the aqueduct. Then, like he had before, John began to run along it, towards where he saw a small, concrete platform. 

Underneath him, almost like an earthquake, the aqueduct shook under the impact of the spirit, who landed with a thump on top, and begun chasing after John once more. Refusing to look down, John moved along the aqueduct more nimbly than he had done before, owing to the fact that this one was much wider, and much cleaner than the ones higher up. 

John leapt towards the concrete platform, landing, and falling over so he impacted on his left shoulder. 

Pain shot up his arm, and his spine, and John let out a yell of pain and surprise at the rough landing. It was almost enough to incapacitate him, but the looming threat of the fact that the spirit seemed to be getting closer, now, almost halfway to the concrete platform, had John pushing himself to his feet, and gritting his teeth against the pain. 

‘John!’ A familiar voice called out to him, from far below him. ‘This way!’

Looking over the edge, as he ran, John saw that Greg was waiting there, in an odd, barrel shaped boat, and holding onto an oar. His grey hair shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight. Up ahead, John could see that the platform was leading to a series of steps, which to his luck, led down to the small jetty from which Greg seemed to be hanging onto. 

John leapt down the steps, realising that they ere coming to be higher than he had realised at first, and having to gently climb down the last few, he reached the level of the water. Behind him, the spirit was gurgling, and John could see that it had actually stopped, and was leaning against a wall, more black goop falling from its maw. 

Realising he had a break, and that now was the time to get on the boat, John leapt over to the jetty, and clambered into the boat beside Greg. Grinning at him, Greg began to pull at the oar, powering them away from the bath-house. 

‘It’s good to see you, mate,’ said John, clapping Greg on the shoulder. ‘Thought you might have been eaten back there.’ 

Greg raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Coming from you? I thought that you were going to be munched on, for sure.’ 

Left with the time, John pulled the kitten from his shoulders, and placed him down on the floor of the boat, before leaning over and grabbing another oar. Turning to face the right way, John looked back at the boat-house, and saw that the No-Face was looking after them, black goop coming from its mouth. 

‘Hey! No-Face!’ called John, out to the spirit, ‘Here! Come over here!’ 

‘Don’t call it over, you idiot!’ Greg said, hitting John sharply on the arm. ‘It’s gonna follow us!’ 

‘I think it needs to come with us,’ explained John. ‘I think being in the bath-house makes it sick.’ 

‘Yeah, and where’s it gonna go?’ asked Greg, ‘I bloody hope you know what you’re doing.’ 

As they both watched, pulling at the oars to speed them away from the bath-house, the spirit leapt off of the concrete platform it was standing on, higher up in the bath-house, and plummeted towards the water. It entered with a splash, then, as John watched, it began to wind through the water, swimming after them. 

‘If we get eaten, I’m going to bloody well kill you,’ grunted Greg, from beside him. John grinned. 

‘I hope not, mate,’ John replied, ‘but I don’t think it’s going to hurt us, now.’ 

‘I hope you’re right,’ Greg said, with a shake of his head. 

Behind them, the spirit retched, one more time, and John couldn’t quite make out what it was that the spirit spat out, but he could see the effect it had on the spirit. The spirit was back to looking almost transparent, fully hazy around the edges and less ghostly. The gaping mouth that it had, filled with nasty, square teeth disappeared, as did the prominent legs. 

It followed after them, almost ghostly as it stepped onto the tracks that they were following to the station, trailing along after them. The child-like mask was back to its normal, creepy self, and it looked like John was right. The spirit wasn’t trying to catch up, just seeming to follow them as John had prompted before. 

John let out a huge sigh of relief that he hadn’t realised he had been holding, focusing more on paddling now that their main adversary for the moment seemed to not be so.. adversarial anymore. 

‘How far away are we?’ asked John, after a moment of deep breathing. 

‘Not far,’ replied Greg. ‘I’ll drop you off and then head back.’ 

‘Why?’ asked John.

‘What do you mean “why”?’

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ 

Greg looked at him, shocked. ‘You want me along?’ 

‘Of course,’ said John, ‘I have a spare ticket, and I think you should come, mate. You’ve been wanting to get away from the bath-house for as long as I’ve known you, well, now’s your chance.’ 

‘I… I…’ 

John looked closely at Greg. It seemed like now that he was confronted with the actual, real possibility of leaving. Trying to smile reassuringly, John thought about what might be going through Greg’s head right about now. 

The fact that he actually had an escape route, that Moriarty hadn’t stopped them from leaving, and that there were train tickets in John’s pocket that could let him go where he wanted was daunting. It would be if John was in Greg’s position, that much he knew. The entire world, well, Spirit World, to go and find where he belonged, and to search for that mystery man, and yet, at the same time, no idea where to begin looking. 

John took a deep breath, at that thought. Greg had no memories. He had no idea where to begin looking, and what he might find. 

And what if the man Greg was searching for had moved on? Was it worth the risk? 

‘Look, mate,’ John tried, ‘Come with me to Castle Lake. I want you to come. You might even be able to get some help from Sherlock’s brother, if you ask nicely, to find the man you’re looking for, and the place you’re looking for.’ 

Greg looked at him, grateful clearly for the starting point. 

‘Thanks, mate,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll do that. You really want me to come along?’ 

John grinned. ‘What kind of question is that?’ 

Greg laughed, just as their boat thunked against something made from concrete. ‘Guess we’re here,’ said the grey-haired spirit. John smiled reassuringly, setting down his oar, and turning to step out of the boat, and into the shallow water next to the station platform. 

It wasn’t much, at first glance. Just a concrete platform that rose a little way above the waterline, with a simple, metal bench in the middle, and a small clock on a tall, metal pole. Then again, John didn’t think he’d actually seen a clock in the Spirit World yet, so, curious, he stepped up onto the platform, the kitten mewling in his ear, and stretching. 

Peering up at the clock, he saw that it had a minute, second and hour hand, but the second hand wasn’t moving at all. And the clock was showing that it was 3:15, when John was absolutely sure it was much later than that. The sun was sitting low on the horizon, bathing everything a little red. 

Next to him, Greg stepped up and nudged him. ‘It’s a fake,’ Greg said, ‘There’s actually no time in the Spirit World. It’s a bit weird for humans, I know, but that clock doesn’t show the time.’ 

If there wasn’t actually any time in the Spirit World, it would explain a lot, upon reflection. How the days and nights seemed to be different lengths, how it felt like he had been here for weeks, now, but the sun had set and risen only a few times. Why that first night had seemed so short, but the most recent days and nights had seemed to last an eternity. 

‘Hey, the train’s coming!’ 

Greg’s excited voice drew John out of his reverie, and he saw that the train was indeed approaching, steam issuing forth from the chimney. It was actually quite the spectacle, now that John was really seeing it up close. The train was dark in colour, and had black accents on a red engine. It was also quite tall, easily double Greg’s height, with John’s height added on for the smokestack. 

It let out a whistle as it approached the station, coming to a gentle halt. The carriages matched the engine in colour, dark red with pretty windows, gilded in gold. The roofs of the carriages were also black in colour. 

‘Come on, John!’ Greg was excitedly bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, standing in front of the carriage door, which was being opened by a hulking conductor in a green uniform. Stepping up to the door, John saw that the man was simply enormous, taking up the entire doorway. 

‘Hello,’ John greeted, ‘We’d like to go to Castle Lake.’ 

‘Tickets,’ grunted the conductor, holding out a hand. 

‘Ah, right,’ John nodded, digging into his pocket to pull out the four precious tickets given to him by Mrs Hudson. He placed the things into the conductor’s white gloved left hand, almost comical in the way that it completely dwarfed the almost delicate looking tickets in his hand. 

The conductor began counting their party, Greg bouncing and almost squeaking excitedly when the conductor counted him. John was pointed to, as was the kitten, and then, the conductor pointed behind them. 

Confused, John turned to look where the conductor was pointing, and realised that the No-Face had approached, almost silently, and ghostly-looking. 

John regarded the No-Face with a critical eye. ‘Do you want to come along?’ he asked it.

It nodded, fervently, _‘Ah, ah.’_

‘He’s coming too,’ said John, nodding at the conductor. The conductor just grunted one more time, before feeding the four small tickets into what looked like a tiny grinder around his waist. The tickets were turned to shreds, and John almost winced. 

From what he had gathered, those things were precious and expensive, and John was almost horrified by the nonchalant way in which the conductor had just fed them through the grinder, turning the tickets to shreds. And at his side, it seemed like Greg was, as well. 

Taking a deep breath, John stepped up into the carriage, followed by Greg, and the No-Face. The kitten was secure around John’s shoulders. 

The conductor turned away, through a door that clearly led to some sort of other compartment. Behind them, the door to the carriage slid shut, and, with a jolt, the train began to move under their feet. 

Looking to their left, John saw that they were at the start of a corridor, compartments with shut doors to the left and right. 

‘I think we gotta find a compartment,’ prompted Greg. John nodded his agreement, before stepping down the corridor. The compartments to the left and right were closed for some way, their wood-panelled doors betraying nothing, but about five compartments down, there was a door standing open, revealing behind it seats facing each other, softly upholstered in deep red. 

‘Here,’ John gestured, leading Greg and the No-Face into the compartment. 

Behind them, the door slid shut of its own accord, making both John and Greg jump. 

In the compartment, there was a window, between the seats. It revealed a view out over the water, shimmering and reflecting reddish orange light of the sunset. The seats suddenly looked very warm and inviting, and John collapsed down into the nearest one with a sigh of relief. 

The exhaustion of the day was just getting to him, and the fact that he hadn’t had much sleep at all, stewing over what Moriarty had said to him. 

Greg took a seat next to him, staring out the window, and the No-Face sat down opposite them, against the wall next to the compartment door. 

‘You know,’ Greg murmured, after a moment, ‘It doesn’t really seem real.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked John. 

‘I mean that it just… all feels a little odd, I suppose. I wasn’t expecting to hop on the train today. I kind of expected to be at the bath-house for much longer, if that makes sense.’ 

‘Yeah,’ replied John, ‘It does. I’m more than a little worried about what’s going to happen to my sister, as well. That’s the whole reason I was at the bath-house in the first place, anyway.’ 

‘Why are you going to Castle Lake?’ asked Greg. John remembered he hadn’t actually told Greg what had happened. 

‘I’m going to see Sherlock’s brother,’ replied John, ‘Sherlock stole a crystal from him for Moriarty, and it’s made him very sick.’ 

‘Why are you so worried about what happens to Sherlock?’ asked Greg, ‘I mean, it’s not like you really know the guy, anyway.’ 

‘Greg… I…’ John mumbled, ‘I may have told you a bit of a lie.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Well, I have been going to see my sister when I sneak away during the day, but I’ve been going to see Sherlock, as well.’ 

‘Really?’ Greg’s voice was incredulous. 

‘Yeah,’ said John. ‘He’s not… you said all his stuff about him, how he’s a bit of a bastard, really, but Sherlock’s not like that. Well, he is, but not all that. He’s abrasive, and he can be really insensitive sometimes, but he’s very clever, Greg. He’s so smart, it’s honestly amazing. And he can be funny, and we have the best conversations I’ve had in a while. I could talk to him for hours and hours and not get bored. And, honestly, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had.’ 

‘Sounds like you’re a bit in love with him, mate,’ teased Greg. John looked over at him, hearing both the lighthearted teasing, and the honest undercurrent of curiosity, and worry that John couldn’t begrudge the other man. John smiled, wryly, tiredly, trying to reassure the grey-haired fox spirit. 

‘More than a little,’ replied John. 

‘And he… he’s… you know.’ 

John bit his lip. ‘I think so. It’s hard to see, sometimes, but I think so.’ 

Greg smiled, running a hand through his grey locks, before leaning back in his seat. ‘Well, it’s got me out of that damn bath-house, so I don’t care.’ 

‘When did you come to the bath-house?’ asked John. 

Greg shrugged. ‘I can’t really remember. It’s like that thing, where you’re trying to remember something from your childhood, but you really can’t. The memory’s just there, I know it is, but I can’t reach it.’ 

‘Mrs Hudson told me that you came when Sherlock came.’ 

‘Did I?’ Greg looked over at him, surprise evident on his features. ‘I honestly can’t recall. That makes sense, though.’ 

‘Why?’ asked John. 

‘Because,’ shrugged Greg, ‘I suppose… It just does. I don’t know.’ 

‘Did you know him before you came to the bath-house?’ 

‘I…’ Greg looked supremely confused. He didn’t say anything else, just biting his lip and shrugging. 

‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, Greg,’ John said, after a moment, pulling one hand out from under the kitten to thump Greg on the shoulder. Greg grinned, then turned to look back out the window. 

Out the window, they were passing over the water at what seemed like a very high speed. Across from him, the No-Face didn’t appear to be reacting at all, just sitting still, almost like a statue. 

In his lap, after a little while, the tabby kitten curled up into a tiny ball, resting its tiny head under even tinier paws, and then dozed off. Low humming sounds emanated from its body, warmly rising and falling in John’s lap. 

John tucked his hands around the tiny body, watching the scenery go by with Greg. The Spirit World was beautiful, no one could deny that. It was nothing like anything he’d seen in the human world before. Great plains of water passed them by, every so often hill-islands would protrude from the great, blue expanse. Some even had small houses on top of them, in a variation of styles including what looked like a few Rapunzel-style towers, what looked like a Japanese temple, and another that looked like a cathedral. On some of these islands, there were spirits, some familiar to those in the bath-house, some completely unfamiliar. Some ghostly-looking spirits, with featureless faces, meandered along platforms beside the tracks. 

At the third platform along from the bath-house, the train whistled, and drew to a halt. Curious, John looked up from where he had been resting his head against his shoulder in a light doze, to look out the window. Next to him, Greg was snoring, but John peered over him, and out the window. He watched, as several of the black, ghostly-looking spirits left the train, carting with them suitcases, bags and hats. There was even what looked like a young girl spirit, with long, ghostly hair, and a teddy clutched in her left hand. 

They all drifted across the platform, taking ghostly steps towards a large structure that seemed to lead down from the higher platform, under the water somewhere. Frowning, John tried to lean over, and see where it was that the stairs were leading, but to no avail. 

The entire train seemed like it was something out of a picture — put there for show, but not actually functional. It didn’t really seem like any of the other passengers were particularly real, just going about their lives as if someone had come along and set them to do it, but without any actual intent. Farcical, John thought. It gave him an altogether uneasy feeling about the entire thing, as if the train was some sort of honey-trap, and if he just scratched away the surface a little, it would reveal that the train was nothing more than a hologram, a pretty illusion. 

It did seem to be taking them where they needed to go, though. At least, John thought it was. It was travelling, taking them away from the bath-house, and that was all that mattered. Mrs Hudson had said the stop was called Castle Lake, and he had decided when he had taken the tickets that he trusted Mrs Hudson. But John still couldn’t help his instincts. 

The train was moving again, darting away from the platform and almost skating across the water. If John looked carefully, he could see the wake that the train was making in the water, and it made the thing all the more real. 

Next to him, Greg snorted and rolled his head so that he was leaning on the opposite shoulder to the one that he had been leaning on before. In sleep, Greg looked peaceful, and, oddly, hopeful. It made John wonder how Sherlock was doing back in the bath-house. 

Sherlock. 

Now there was a more pleasant thought. And yet, at the same time, he was filled with concern for the other man, and a deep sense of longing. Suddenly, the thing he wanted the most, now, was to get back to Sherlock, to see Sherlock open those beautiful eyes of his, and captivate him with that gaze. 

_Almost there,_ thought John. Almost, and then he could go back. He could see Sherlock better. 

It was terrifying, really, how much Sherlock had taken up his entire thought process. This place. He had come here, because of his sister. And that was his worry, at first. Concern for his sister, making his sister better. In more ways than one. But now… now there was so much more. 

He wondered, briefly, what would have happened if he hadn’t actually followed his sister down the creepy alleyway. What would have happened if he hadn’t been oddly drawn after his sister, chasing her down the rabbit hole, both figuratively and literally. 

He would have never met Sherlock. 

That thought filled John with trepidation. The thought of never meeting that magnificent, magical man. That, was truly terrifying. 

He had been so close, John realised. He had been so close to just biting a bullet. Coming home from war, coming back to being a civilian, that was the hardest thing that John thought he had ever done. He had to be… normal. And was there really anything worse than that? 

It was an adventure. 

No… that cheapened it. War wasn’t an adventure. It was war. It was… dead soldiers. It was everything that you thought you knew about morality and happiness and what was right, turned on its head. Because was it really right to be in a war? 

And then to come back to London, and not have to think about that. To have to face ordinary decisions, like when to turn the kettle on, whether or not to shower now, or later, whether or not he should go shopping. It was all so… so tedious. Boring. 

Then, this. Then, coming to the Spirit World, and it was back to making decisions bigger than himself. Trusting his instincts, doing what he needed to do. And that was so much better. So much more… fulfilling than having to check his bank balance every day, and walk the streets of London in a haze of tedium, unable to see _it_ anymore. Unable to see the battlefield. 

Here, back to the war. 

Yet, it was nothing like a war. 

John realised, suddenly, that this was really the first time he had been able to just spend time thinking. Sitting still, thinking about what had happened, and how he felt about what had happened. It was almost a relief, really, to be able to just _think._ About everything. About Sherlock. About Harry. About Greg, and Mycroft, and the bath-house, and Moriarty. 

But Sherlock. Always, always, his thoughts kept circling back to Sherlock. That thin, lithe body, strong under his own. Caring, and worrying and hoping beyond hope for someone outside himself. It felt like nothing John had experienced before. That sensation of caring for someone other than himself, outside himself. 

It made him think about how selfish he had been, before. How he hadn’t really, truly thought of someone besides himself, but suddenly, it was like there was an enormous shift in his mind, his world, his entire being. As if all that mattered was what the other person wanted, what Sherlock needed from him, and what they needed together. It was a completely different view. Because now, instead of thinking of something, thinking of what he wanted, he would think about what he and Sherlock needed, together. 

Oddly, somehow, it felt like Sherlock had woven his way into everything in his life. Sherlock had been there when he had fallen off the swings when he was three, had studied alongside him in school, had arrogantly declared how stupid and insipid his lecturers were in medical school. Then, of course, the army, and Sherlock standing next to him in fatigues, pointing out an enemy base camp, oiling a gun, loading supplies. A narrow, curly-haired body lying next to him in the dirt, pale skin pinking under the Afghan sun, bright eyes looking at him from under a dirt-streaked helmet. 

Coming back to London would have been easier, had Sherlock done it with him. Sitting there in the bedsit with him, watching him tuck his gun away, and pulling it from his hand when he had sat there, just looking. Leaning over his shoulder as he tried to write that damn blog. 

John just had to let out a low laugh, then. What would Ella say if he wrote everything that had happened to him so far in that blog? She would probably wonder if he was high. 

The entire thing was like something out of a fairytale. A bath-house, a flooded grassland, a magical portal, spirits, and, of course, Sherlock. 

John took a deep breath, and leaned his head back against the back of the seat, letting the last sunlight of the day wash over his face, and clearing his mind of his worries. It wasn’t quite enough to chase everything he was feeling away, his trepidation, his worry for Sherlock, and just a general sense of missing the dragon. 

It felt wrong not to be by Sherlock’s side, helping to make him better, but this was where he needed to be. Seeing Mycroft was the only way that Sherlock was going to get better. If Mycroft really had laid a curse on the crystal, then returning it was the only hope John had that Sherlock would be alright. 

Out the window, the ocean of water flooding the land was turning orange in the sunset. On the horizon, the sun was setting, brilliant and bright, like fire. The sky was turning from blue to orange to pink and then to purple, and the first stars were just winking into existence. High above them, John could see that a single star, brighter than all the rest, was shimmering and wavering in the night sky. 

In his lap, the kitten rolled over, opening its eyes wide, and then standing, turning in a circle, and then pawing at John’s lap before lying down and wiggling to get comfortable. John smiled, bemused, before running a hand down the ex-tiger’s back, and between velvety ears, before laying small, gentle scratches along a tiny jaw. Contentedly, the kitten purred, and closed its eyes once more. 

Next to him, Greg grunted again, waking with a start and rubbing at his eyes. John grinned at the other man. 

‘You’d think I’d be used to the snoring after sleeping next to you.’ 

‘Hey,’ said Greg, shoving John on the shoulder, ‘I do not snore.’ 

‘I can assure you you do, mate,’ John teased back. Greg grunted once more, shoving John’s shoulder harder, before looking out the window again. 

‘How far away are we, d’you reckon?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied John, ‘I don’t think we’re too far, though. Mrs Hudson didn’t say that it was very far.’ 

‘Hmm,’ Greg hummed, before standing up and stretching, the soft material of his bath-house clothing shifting, creased by the long period of sitting, ‘Maybe I can go find the conductor, or a map, or something. Gotta go to the toilet, too.’ 

‘Good idea,’ said John, nodding. 

Greg grinned, his tanned face creasing, before walking over to the compartment door and tugging it open, heading out into the corridor. The compartment door shut with a click behind him. 

John was left alone in the compartment, aside from the kitten, and No-Face. John looked over at the ghostly, masked spirit, who was as stationary as a statue, still. Cocking his head, John frowned. 

‘Excuse me,’ he tried, ‘are you alright?’ 

The spirit inclined its head. _‘Ah, ah,’_ it said. It sounded like it was fine. 

‘Alright then,’ shrugged John, turning to look out the window of the train carriage once more, allowing his thoughts to be swamped by Sherlock again. It made it a little easier, thinking about the man, and missing him, for some reason. 

The compartment door clicked as Greg walked back in, to retake his seat by the window. 

‘Hey, John,’ called Greg, waving a hand in front of John’s face. John started, looking over at Greg, who grinned. ‘Daydreaming?’ 

‘No,’ huffed John, looking away from Greg and blushing. 

Greg nudged him, ’s’alright, mate,’ he said, ‘I get it. Though Sherlock, really?’ 

‘Hey!’ John shot back, ‘Like you’ve chosen better.’ 

Greg laughed, nudging John again before pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket. It appeared to be a map of the route of the train, but it was in a series of symbols that John couldn’t understand. 

‘It says that Castle Lake is the next stop away, I think,’ said Greg, ‘because we passed this stop a little while ago, and I recognise this bit.’ 

Greg was pointing at where he thought they were, and then drew his finger up to point at what appeared to be a large land-mass, past the flooded plains they were travelling across. In the centre of the land-mass, there was a large lake, with an island in it. By the side of the lake was a small symbol that John guessed meant a station. 

‘Do you think we’ll be able to see it?’ asked John. Greg shrugged, looking out the window. John followed suit, quickly leaning over to peer out the window. 

Up ahead, he could see the large, dark form of what looked like land. It was late evening now, the sun having set already, and the sky still a little coloured, light low but filtering through so John could still see out. It was enough for John to make out the shape of trees across a large, hulking land-mass that extended some way in either direction before giving way to the ocean of water once more. The train was slowly approaching this land-mass, and it was growing larger and larger by the moment. 

Looking back at the mass, John saw that Castle Lake seemed to be some distance past the edge of the land, past what looked to be some sort of moorland, coloured in dark green.

Pointing, he asked Greg, ‘What’s this?’ 

‘That’s the swamp,’ replied Greg. ‘You’ll see it as we go past.’ 

‘Right,’ nodded John, ‘and then we have to get off the train just after that to go through to Castle Lake.’ 

‘To see Sherlock’s brother?’ 

John nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, pulling the crystal out of his pocket, ‘I have to return this. Sherlock took it. It’s cursed, so anyone who takes it will suffer.’ 

‘And you think that if you return it, then the curse will be lifted?’ 

‘I hope so,’ replied John, grimly, ‘I bloody well hope so, mate.’ 

Greg smiled, wryly. ‘Well, not long now. Do you think Sherlock’s alright?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ John replied, knowing Greg was hitting on one of his own fears. Greg looked away, biting his lip. 

Out the window, they passed into the moorland. Around them, the dim, green light of the swamp filtered into the compartment. Outside the window, John could just make out the shapes of trees, with hanging vines almost dropping to touch the water. The train itself seemed to be travelling along tracks that were just above the level of the swampy water, now. It was a dark, murky green, and he wondered what kinds of creatures were living in them. Up above, a tiny scrap of the sky could still be seen, darkening into nightfall quite quickly. 

‘Where will you go?’ asked John, ‘After we go to Castle Lake.’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Greg, ‘Honestly, I don’t.’ 

‘I have to go back to the bath-house, to my sister and Sherlock,’ John said, ‘But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come back. Moriarty might take you again.’ 

‘He will,’ assured Greg, ‘I may be outside his reach right now, but if I go back then I’m back to scrubbing baths and floors. You’ll be alright, getting back by yourself?’ 

‘I think so,’ said John, ‘I think I can just walk back along the tracks.’ 

‘It’s really far,’ commented Greg. John nudged the other man, grinning, and trying to stave off his trepidations. 

‘You don’t say, mate.’ 

But Greg had brought up something else he was worried about. What if he couldn’t make it back to Sherlock? What if somehow he got lost on his way back, or Moriarty missed him. In fact, what wasn’t to say that Moriarty hadn’t already missed him and eaten Harry as punishment, just as he had threatened? 

It filled John with a sort of gut-wrenching fear, adding to everything he was already feeling to form an awful picture in his head, one that made him feel sick to the core. 

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he leant back his head and closed his eyes, listening to Greg shift beside him, and trying to clear his mind of all the unhelpful thoughts filtering through it. Clearing his mind was a herculean task, but he managed it, forcing himself to think of nothing but the way that Sherlock’s eyes had looked at him, yesterday. The feeling of Sherlock’s body curled against his own, tightly pressed into his chest. The softness of Sherlock’s curls. And it was enough. 

He opened his eyes with a renewed focus, just as the train whistled, approaching the station. The compartment door magically clicked open, the conductor standing there, dwarfing the frame of the door. 

Getting to his feet, John tucked the kitten on his shoulder, gestured to No-Face and Greg, and left the compartment behind the conductor. Behind him, Greg stepped after him, and No-Face also drifted to the door with the rest of them. The door of the train that they had come through was sitting open on its hinges, opening onto a long, concrete platform with a single bench in the centre. 

A tall clock was perched atop a pole next to the bench, looming over them and reading the same time as the other clock had; 3:15. 

Stepping out onto the platform, John took a look around. The platform was located in what looked like some sort of forest, dark trees all around them, and odd sounds coming from the darkness. John swore he could see sets of eyes peering out at them, but when he blinked, they disappeared.

Crows called out from the trees, startled by something, and letting off a series of laughing cries. These cries were drowned out by the sound of the train whistling, and clicking away from the platform behind him. 

‘Creepy,’ remarked Greg, stepping up next to John, No-Face gliding up behind them. 

‘You said it, mate,’ said John, grinning and stepping forwards as confidently as he could. ‘Come on. We have to get going.’ 

Greg stepped up behind John, following in his wake as John walked towards where he spotted some stairs leading down from the platform. Pulling the map from where he had stashed it in the pocket of his jeans, he pulled it out to peer down at the image. The platform they were at was some distance from the edge of the lake, and even then, they were going to have to find some way across the lake. 

Sighing, John decided to deal with that problem when they got there, and made his way down the stairs to the bottom of the platform. Behind the platform, there was a little area of muddy ground, cleared of trees, and then a small trail, made of mud, with puddles along its surface meandered into the darkness. John guessed that it was most likely that way to the lake, and was about to step down the trail, when Greg reached out a hand and snagged him on the elbow. 

‘John…’ he said, ‘I… feel strange. Like… I dunno. Like somehow I know this place.’ 

‘Really?’ asked John. ‘I… are you sure?’ 

‘I think so,’ said Greg. John grinned. 

‘Well, that’s a good sign, isn’t it?’ 

‘I don’t know. You have to be careful, trusting odd senses, in the Spirit World. It could be a trap.’ 

John frowned. ‘I hope not.’ 

‘So do I,’ replied Greg, grimly. 

Setting his features, John sighed. There was nothing for it, really. The trail was right there, and it didn’t seem like there was any other direction to go in. 

Down the trail they went, quickly losing sight of the platform behind them. No-Face glided along after them, and the kitten curled up, shivering, on John’s shoulder. The trees swallowed them up, until it was almost too dark to see, the sky fully black above them, and the stars shimmering high above their heads. 

Then, a light fell across their features. 

Something was bouncing towards them, coming out of the darkness and bathing their faces in bright, yellow light. John frowned, peering through the darkness, trying to see whatever it was that was headed towards them. 

‘What’s that?’ asked Greg, holding a hand up to shield his face, as his eyes adjusted. John, blinking, could see through the sudden bright light a moment later, and saw that it was an enormous umbrella, hopping towards them on what looked like a single, highly polished loafer, through the mud. On top of it, at its very tip, was a shining, yellow orb of light. 

Confused, John blinked, as it came to a halt in front of them, bouncing on one heel. Somehow, as if its stem was made from rubber, it bent at them, bowing, before turning, and hopping away. John frowned, looking after it. 

It stopped, a few metres away, as if it was waiting for something, or someone. 

‘I think it wants us to follow it,’ John commented, looking over at Greg, who was watching the umbrella, almost transfixed. 

‘I know it does,’ Greg said. John looked at him, sharply. 

‘How do you know?’ 

‘I just do,’ snapped Greg, ‘I know… somehow. Just trust me on this one, mate.’ 

‘Greg, are you feeling alright?’ 

‘I feel fine,’ replied Greg, frowning oddly, as if confused by himself. 

‘Are you sure?’ asked John, ‘You’ve been acting oddly since we got off the train. 

‘I’m fine,’ Greg replied, ‘I just… I feel like I do know this place. Really well.’ 

‘If you’re sure,’ John said. ‘It could be a good sign, that you know. Maybe you lived around here.’ 

‘Maybe! Come on!’ 

‘Alright,’ John replied, wary, following after Greg; who had excitedly taken off behind the umbrella.


End file.
